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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24124669">Return to Oxenfurt</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/vands38/pseuds/vands38'>vands38</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Oxenfurtverse [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Canon Era, Dildos, Disowned Jaskier, Drag, Drinking, Female Valdo Marx, Filk, Fluff, Friendship, Gender Dysphoria, History Nerd Geralt, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Jaskier and Valda are academic rivals, Jaskier | Dandelion is a Noble, M/M, Minor Secondary Pairings, Occasional recreational drug use, Oxenfurt Academy, POV Alternating, Poverty, Prostitution, Queer Culture, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Trans Jaskier | Dandelion, Transitioning, Transphobia, Wordcount: Over 100.000, Yennefer Makes An Appearance, everyone is bi, general student hijinks, hart root tea, mild homophobia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 16:00:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>124,569</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24124669</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/vands38/pseuds/vands38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Geralt accepts a contract from the history professor at Oxenfurt Academy and finds himself roped into a lecture. He doesn't think anything of it until an intriguing student stumbles through the door and Geralt finds himself drawn back to Oxenfurt over and over again.</p><p>(AKA the fluffy canon-era trans Jaskier Oxenfurt Academy AU that no one asked for, featuring genderswapped Valdo Marx and soft! understanding! Geralt)</p><p>includes original music</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion &amp; Valdo Marx</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Oxenfurtverse [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1980514</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1577</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>615</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is just a fun, fluffy AU that I'm writing between other projects because I couldn't get the damn idea out of my head. There will be approx 60 chapters that update every Thursday. </p><p>INFO - </p><p>Jaskier is FTM in this fic and when you meet him he is still identifying as female and using associated pronouns. He is  sometimes mistakenly called 'Julia' and occasionally engages in vaginal intercourse. There's a lot of associated gender dysphoria as Jaskier goes through his transition but it's a fluffy fic and won't lean too heavily into the angst side of things. If you need more details about plot, language, or sex scenes then please consult <a href="https://docs.google.com/document/d/1dGMfq1CYApIhEQUDD0Yams_PInC1g5oIpd0aBlPgjFs/edit?usp=sharing">this document</a> for more info. There are some necessary spoilers within that link so please be mindful not to spoil those who have chosen not to read it, and feel free to ask any questions that you may have!</p><p>The concept of hart root tea (which is used as a testosterone substitute in this fic) is lifted from a podcast called Skyjacks which I cannot recommend enough. You can find out more about the concept, the podcast, and who to credit if you use the idea in your own works <a href="https://vands38.tumblr.com/post/626267999979159552/hey-im-here-to-ask-a-question-regarding-heart">over here</a>. </p><p>This is your general disclaimer that this story does not attempt to encapsulate The Trans Experience (TM). This represents a singular narrative out of a world of different journeys and experiences, none more valid than any other. There is not one way to be trans; you are all perfect and I love you. </p><p>In other news, I'm blantantly ignoring the fact that in ye olden times women weren't permitted to attend university and students would be, like, 13. Instead, most of the setting here is inspired by Oxford-type university education today. </p><p>A lot of the setting and handy little plot devices are game inspired but you can read it without playing the Wild Hunt. There are also some shout outs to the show even though this is 100% a different canon.</p><p>There is music dotted throughout the fic but it's all kept in <a href="https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1aF4ULQ7UVoTgmb01NL4Og144ZdjiiD_m?usp=sharing">this google drive</a> for easy access and you can also <a href="https://vands38.tumblr.com/tagged/oxenfurt+album">browse the tag</a> on tumblr.</p><p>Many thanks to the wonderful <a href="https://alittleunder-rehearsed.tumblr.com/">alittleunder-rehearsed</a> who doubled as a beta and sensitivity reader. This fic wouldn't exist without them. Also thanks to <a href="https://multifandomblogofunicorns.tumblr.com/">multifandomblogofunicorns</a> who is the history consultant for all my works, starbit for his thorough research and attention to detail as a sensitivity reader, and <a href="https://kawaiikoala34.tumblr.com/">kawaiikoala34</a> who joined the team as a secondary sensitivity reader. I am so thankful to all of you &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Geralt regrets everything. He regrets coming to Oxenfurt, he regrets taking a contract from a <em>Professor</em> of all things, and he regrets returning to the tavern with the archespore remains in his hands and <em>making conversation </em>with the highly educated woman – </p><p>“You say these beasts only spawn in places of great tragedy,” Professor Gascoigne is saying with far too much interest, “and yet, even as a history professor, I cannot recall a single devastating event that has unfolded in those fields –”   </p><p>“The Slaughter of Ellis, Summer 1187,” Geralt states.</p><p>He regrets – <em>definitely</em> regrets – the way the Professor’s eyes grow wide in wonder.</p><p>*</p><p>Jaskier is rudely awoken by the strangled vocal mutilations – oh, I’m sorry, <em>singing</em> – of her roommate, Valda Marx. Jaskier groans and attempts to smother the dire atrocities with the single threadbare pillow in her possession. “<em>Please</em>,” she begs from beneath the linen fortress, “can you desist your sadistic predilection to torture me for one godforsaken –?”  </p><p>A book is thrown at Jaskier’s head, rendering her mute. “I’m doing you a favour, you talentless hack,” Valda returns. “Not only is my divine voice a much needed lesson to your own erroneous ears, but also, you may have noticed that it’s two hours past sunrise and thus time for –” </p><p>“Oh, fuck,” Jaskier swears, startling into full consciousness, remembering what day it is and therefore what torment awaits her. “History class.” </p><p>Jaskier tears down her blankets to challenge her enemy. Valda, for her part, is elegantly dressed in a sage coloured dress with her blonde hair perfectly coiffed, with three history textbooks poised in her hand, and all in all, looking unfairly beautiful and incredibly smug for this hour of the morning. </p><p>“Perhaps,” Valda drawls, towering over her prostrate roommate, “if one had not spent the best part of night <em>frolicking</em> with Camber boys –”</p><p>“I was <em>composing</em>,” Jaskier retorts, although, actually, between drinks and songs and laughter on the rooftop with the lads from Camber college, there may also have been a blow job or two. That’s neither here nor there.</p><p>“Well,” Valda says with her chin held high, as if she would never stoop to such lows, despite Jaskier having heard her screaming in ecstasy beneath the young Botanical lecturer only last week. “Whatever the case. You’d better hurry – Professor Gascoigne isn’t known to take kindly to latecomers.”</p><p>Jaskier groans and scrambles for her clothing as Valda turns on her heel with an elegant flick of hair and heads for the door. She’s right to say Professor Gascoigne is a stickler for the rules. It’s their first month of the first semester of the first year at Oxenfurt but already they have learnt not to fuck with the history professor. Jaskier needs to arrive on time, she really does, because it was a minor miracle her parents let her study the Bardic Arts at the Academy in the first place. </p><p>How had Jaskier convinced them in the end? Oh, that’s right – <em>“Think of all the young, eligible, bachelors I could meet, mother,” </em>and, <em>“Surely, father, any nobleman worth his salt would prefer an educated woman for a wife,”</em> and other such demeaning bullshit that had made Jaskier want to vomit but had ultimately got her through the door. Now she’s here, she is finally <em>free</em> from the chains of noble life and she is not going to squander her chances at freedom by daring to insult Professor Gascoigne with something as preventable as her tardiness. </p><p>Jaskier reaches for the concoction hidden beneath her bedside table that the local alchemist swears keeps women infertile if taken daily. Jaskier doesn’t often partake in such intercourse - the risk of pregnancy is so terrifying that it seems to tamper her desire for that particular act - but there is no harm in taking extra precautions, especially considering the numerous and diverse company she keeps. </p><p>She swallows the day’s dosage, throws on some clothes, and tosses whatever relevant books and papers she can find into her satchel, before running out the door.</p><p>*</p><p>Geralt has never even stepped foot in a university before, let alone taught a class. Professor Gascoigne assured him that the majority of his students were late teens, with a few stretching beyond that, but when he looks out over the sea of students he realises just how young that really is. Not one of these youths have been hardened by experience. Most are young noblemen and act like it; full of pretentious banter and leering gazes, as they peer at their lecturer’s guest like an unwelcome louse. The only notable exception is that of a blonde woman in the front row who is twirling her fingers in her perfectly sculpted ringlets and gazing at him in an altogether different manner. Geralt feels an itch build under his skin at the unwanted scrutiny. </p><p>Eventually, Professor Gascoigne clears her throat and addresses the whispered rumours in the classroom. “As the eagle eyed among you may have noticed, we have a guest with us today. A Witcher,” she says with barely restrained enthusiasm, “Sir Geralt of Rivia, who has so kindly agreed to share with us his knowledge of the Midsummer Slaughters of 1187 –” </p><p>Geralt hasn’t agreed to shit, quite frankly, other than taking the fifty crowns that now sits in his pocket. He will surmise the history he patched together from the wraiths he encountered that summer and, he supposes, address the resurgence of the archespores, and then he will take his leave. It ought to take no longer than five minutes. However, before he can even begin, there is a commotion outside the door that diverts the attention of the entire classroom. A student stumbles through the open doorway in a chaotic, uncoordinated flail –</p><p>“You’re late, Julia,” Professor Gascoigne states.</p><p>The student looks up with flustered red cheeks and wavy brown hair in disarray, not nearly as prim and proper as her privileged classmates. Books are spilling in her arms and out her satchel and a quill is poised between her teeth, staining the corner of her lips black with ink. There is a similar smudge under the armpit of her unlaced cornflower blue blouse where parchment with wet ink resides. She must have been writing on her way into class. The newcomer could not be more different than the blonde woman in the front row; trousers instead of a skirt, unkempt instead of preened, candid chaos instead of fabricated grace. The two of them are the only young women in the class, however, and must surely be acquainted. </p><p>The quill drops from Julia’s lips as she responds, “Sorry, Professor, there was –”</p><p>“Let me guess,” the Professor responds dryly. “Dragons, was it? The Prince of Nordia? A litter of puppies that you <em>simply</em> had to take care of?”</p><p>There are amused titters around the classroom and Julia smiles as if in on the joke. Presumably these are all stories that the student has previously conjured to explain her tardiness. </p><p>Geralt wonders what convoluted story will be spun this time when the student shrugs with an amused smile and states, “I overslept.”</p><p>Geralt huffs a laugh, and cornflower blue eyes snap to his. Geralt is so taken aback by the depth of them that he barely registers Professor Gascoigne’s tut of disapproval beside him. The student also seems immune to the Professor’s disparagement as her eyes remain trained on his. There’s something intriguing about the girl; something that he knows better than to indulge.</p><p>When the class has settled once more and piercing blue eyes stare out at him from beside the doe-eyed blonde, he clears his throat and begins his recollection of that dreadful summer.</p><p>*</p><p>“Hands off,” Valda whispers as Jaskier takes her seat beside her. </p><p>“Huh?”</p><p>“The Witcher,” Valda bites. “He’s mine.”</p><p>Jaskier takes a steadying inhale and tries to ignore the way the Witcher’s eyes flicker over towards them. Valda’s a fucking idiot. Everyone knows Witchers have enhanced hearing. He most certainly heard her bold declaration, but he doesn’t seem at all perplexed by it. Weird. </p><p>The Witcher clears his throat and begins speaking and Jaskier fucking <em>ascends</em>. Holy hell, that deep, gravelly voice should be <em>illegal</em>.</p><p>Valda shuffles on her seat beside her as if the Witcher’s voice had the same venereal effect on her. Can Witchers smell slick? Can he smell how the two of them are soaking their smallclothes just listening to him <em>talk</em>? Fuck. </p><p>“Doubt he’s interested,” Jaskier retorts quickly, and dips her quill in the ink as she listens to the most fascinating story she’s ever heard told.</p><p>The Witcher speaks in terse, factual sentences, about the slaughter that took place on the neighbouring lands and how the Witcher had pieced together the story, not through textbooks, but by the objects that bound the wraiths to the mortal realm. </p><p>If the story wasn’t fascinating enough, the storyteller himself… <em>well</em>. The way his biceps flex as he emphasises a point, the way his shoulder-length white hair lifts in the breeze from the open window, the hard lines of his body contrasting with the soft, gentle tilt of his lips. This isn’t just some inexperienced Camber boy. This is <em>man</em> in perhaps every sense of the word except the literal. Oh. Jaskier is very much in love with this Witcher. </p><p>“How did you know?” Jaskier asks.</p><p>A deathly silence falls across the classroom. Jaskier had been so enchanted by the Witcher that it felt as if the man was speaking solely to her… not an entire class of undergraduates and a very displeased looking lecturer.</p><p>The Witcher, himself, however, doesn’t seem to mind. He has raised an eyebrow and is looking at Jaskier with gentle, prying interest; a silent invitation to continue.</p><p>Jaskier clears his throat. “Sorry, uh, I meant – how do you know what will give the wraiths peace? If you don’t have anything to go on?”</p><p>The Witcher’s mouth curves ever so slightly into a smile. “Trial and error,” he states. “Sometimes you don’t know what’s right until you know what’s wrong.”</p><p>“Right,” Jaskier says, vaguely understanding but not knowing how to respond to something that had, rather accidentally, been quite profound.</p><p>Valda, however, it seems has no such qualms, “Oh, well, I’m sure <em>Geralt</em> here,” she says with a flirtatious purr, “is experienced enough in all manners to know –”</p><p><em>Geralt…</em> what a beautiful fucking name.</p><p>“I didn’t know shit,” Geralt interrupts, and Jaskier barely manages to suppress her gleeful reaction to Valda’s hurt little whimper. “I had only been on the Path for a decade. I didn’t know this town or its people and there was nothing or no one left alive to tell me. It was fucking guesswork. A lot of my job is.”</p><p>“Oh, then how even more skilled you must be!” Valda declares, apparently not having given up. “To venture into such unknowns and come out the other side. A hero among the masses!”</p><p>Geralt growls. The guttural sound is thrilling and endearing, and has Jaskier shuffling uncomfortably in her seat again to abate growing needs. “Witchers are not heroes,” he grunts. Everything soft about the Witcher has disappeared within the span of that comment. He is a fearsome creature to behold, and Jaskier feels the enter class shrivel away in fear – even Valda seems a little wary of his sudden coldness. Not Jaskier though. The Witcher’s gaze reaches hers, challenging, but she doesn’t back down. He is demonstrating his monstrosity because he considers the praise to be unjust. Valda was a fool to think a man like Geralt wants to be worshipped. He doesn’t. He wants to be understood. Valda truly is a wholly inferior bard if she can’t read something as simple as that.</p><p>Jaskier holds the Witcher’s gaze and steadily curves her lips into a smile, just as challenging. “Tell us about the wraiths,” she says, and Geralt <em>does</em>.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The two girls keep Geralt plied with questions until the end of class – the blonde with inane flirtations and Julia with oddly specific questions about wraiths and archespores – and when the blonde approaches him afterwards with fluttering eyelashes and a coy smile, Geralt admits that he <em>really</em> should have asked for more than fifty crowns.</p><p>“No,” he says to the girl, point blank. “I’m not interested.”</p><p>She whines, but before she can voice a rebuttal, Geralt is striding over to Professor Gascoigne and engaging her in a very dull conversation about the historic reconstruction of the Oxenfurt clocktower, until the blonde gets the hint and leaves with the rest of the students. </p><p>Or, at least, he believes they have all left until the conversation turns so tedious that Geralt’s mind starts to wander and he hears another heartbeat – fast, and human – just outside the open door. </p><p>“– I can only apologise for my student’s behaviour.”</p><p>“Hmm?”</p><p>“Julia,” Professor Gascoigne states, “she can be quite… enthusiastic.” </p><p>“Hmm… Better enthusiastic than vapid,” Geralt replies, still focused on the distant heartbeat; the way it stutters at the sound of the name gives away its owner. For some reason, the prospect of speaking to Julia (even if it is no more than a firm refusal) seems more desirable than the continuation of this academic small talk. He nods his farewell to his acquaintance. “I best be on my way, Professor. So long.” </p><p>Geralt has barely stepped outside the door before Julia is on him, side stepping rapidly to keep pace with him as he strides down the corridor. “Geralt! How funny I bumped into you like this. Just two soon-to-be-friends happening to walk in the same direction… you know, If you’re interested in the clocktower, I’d be happy to show you, seeing as I have a free afternoon and all. Did you know it used to double as a belfry in the late 12th century? Disused now, of course, although the ringing chamber is still situated just below the steeple. Private. Secluded. Very suited for clandestine couplings, should one be so inclined –”</p><p>“Not interested, Julia,” Geralt grunts. </p><p>“Jaskier.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Jaskier… is my name,” she says, looking oddly flustered. There’s still that ink spot on the corner of her mouth. He tries not to look. “Stage name, at least,” she amends. </p><p>Geralt frowns, and is dismayed to find that his quick march ceased somewhere between the utterance of that novel name and the sight of that damn captivating ink stain. “Jaskier…” he muses. The unique moniker seems to suit this erratic student more than the generic noblewoman’s name. “Isn’t that a flower?”</p><p>“The sweetest of all!” the student preens with her arms spread, as obnoxious as a courting songbird. </p><p>“It’s a weed,” he retorts.</p><p>Jaskier whines in the back of her throat, and Geralt considers their conversation finished as he continues his stride towards the exit. </p><p>Jaskier, however, sprints and skips to catch up. “Well, you got me there. Deep roots; you can never get rid of me.” </p><p>“Invasive.”</p><p>“Resilient.” </p><p>“A nuisance.”</p><p>“A beauty!” </p><p>Geralt growls and is dismayed to find that this doesn’t dampen the student’s enthusiasm at all. </p><p>“Once you have a taste of me,” Jaskier flirts in a surprisingly deep (and surprisingly attractive)  voice, “it is already too late. My songs will stay rooted in your mind for seasons. My brightness will follow you into your dreams. My –”</p><p>“I get it,” Geralt grunts, and turns to face the girl again. “I’m still not sleeping with you.”</p><p>Jaskier seems to take this in stride; another challenge that she is eager to face. “Why?” she asks innocently, attempting to charm him with those pretty blue eyes. He’s annoyed by how well it works. </p><p>“You’re too young.”</p><p>This answer, strangely, only seems to provoke her further. “I’m nineteen!” she protests, standing on tippy toes as if to prove the point. Strangely, actually, she is very tall for a woman. Almost the same height as him. That’s… quite nice, actually. Novel. “You can’t hold my baby face against me, it’s one of my best features!”</p><p>The fact that she is defending her age only goes to prove that she is, in fact, too young. Geralt rarely lays with anyone who hasn’t seen thirty winters. He doesn’t like too much innocence; it only makes him feel dirtier once it’s all done. </p><p>Seeing this thought on his face, perhaps, Jaskier fearlessly reaches for his retreating arm and tugs him into the dark alcove of the corridor. “I’m experienced!” she shouts, loud enough that Geralt casts his eyes around for eavesdroppers. “If that’s your concern,” she adds hurriedly. “I’m plenty experienced. You won’t break me.” Her eyes flicker across his body – taking in his sizable muscles and his patchwork of scars – and by the look of her bitten lip and smell of her sudden lust, it appears that she very much wants him to <em>try</em>.</p><p>Geralt raises an eyebrow and lets himself be pulled towards her, more curious than anything else. He highly doubts that whatever a nineteen year old deems ‘experienced’ will have any contest with his <em>eighty</em> years. He sighs. “I’m sure you –”</p><p>“Jonas took me up the arse last week!” she blurts defensively, and Geralt rubs his temples in a bid for relief. Jaskier must read this gesture otherwise and continues her boasting, “I sucked off <em>two</em> guys last night and my jaw only aches a little. Oh! And I fucked Valda – I know, I know, please don’t hold it against me,” she says with a wince and her hands raised in defense, “I know she’s a truly insipid creature but it was my first week here and I didn’t know any better – but I fucked her with a nine-inch –”</p><p>Geralt holds up his hand and the student falls mercifully silent. He knows how that sentence ends and his libido definitely does not need to hear the rest of it. It’s been three months on the Path, and the only brothel in Oxenfurt is far too pricey for his current circumstances. Just the thought of these two girls fucking has him distressingly hard in his breeches even if, as Jaskier states, Valda is not entirely desirable. </p><p>Geralt glances around to see if anyone else was witness to Jaskier’s carnal declarations but the hallway is thankfully still deserted. He turns back to see earnest blue eyes and bitten lips and that damn ink stain which probably tastes hideous but that he nonetheless wants to lick clean. Jaskier is young. And eager. And incredibly annoying. But Geralt cannot deny a certain attraction. </p><p>“Fine,” he grunts. “At least you know what nine inches looks like.”</p><p>*</p><p>Jaskier knew that Geralt would be a good lay but it’s possible she underestimated just how good. The Witcher is fucking unstoppable. As soon as they are through the door to the dorm, Geralt is kissing the very life out of her and stripping her so rapidly that it doesn’t even give time for the debilitating thoughts to form. He kisses her single-mindedly, licking into her mouth until she forgets they are two separate beings. Jaskier feels like she’s being <em>consumed</em> and it’s wholly intoxicating. Jaskier just clings along for the ride as Geralt carries her to the bed and continues to fuck her in at least five different positions until she is screaming louder than Valda on a bad hair day. </p><p>Anxiety clutches her chest when he reaches for her breasts but he barely gives them a customary grope before he is grunting and taking his broad hands to her waist instead; perhaps sensing that Jaskier doesn’t find it particularly pleasurable, or perhaps, just easily distracted. Either way, her breasts go miraculously unmolested. </p><p>Even the sex itself isn’t as uncomfortable as it usually is; mainly because he fucks her sweet spot so relentlessly that she can barely form coherent thought. Jaskier normally hates this act. Normally, she can’t stop thinking about how weird it feels. About how hideous her body is. About how good it would feel if her clit was a little longer and she could buck up against that beautifully sculpted stomach… <em>Fuck</em>.</p><p>Okay, so she thinks about it a little. But the thoughts are easy to chase away when Geralt gives her the best dicking down of her entire fucking <em>life</em> –</p><p>“Shit, sorry,” she swears as her long hair gets caught between their bodies once again. She reaches for the sweaty mass and sweeps it out of the way. “I hate my fucking hair.”</p><p>“So cut it,” Geralt grunts, as he gathers her onto his lap and uses his inhuman strength to impale her repeatedly onto his cock.</p><p>Jaskier forgets what words are for a good two minutes, and then, when she has recovered, states, “Can’t.”</p><p>Geralt looks at her, brow furrowed. “Why?” </p><p>He flips her onto her back and hoists her leg over his shoulder and it takes Jaskier another good two minutes to speak. “‘Cos… I’m noble? ’s expected? ‘m meant to have long hair.”</p><p>“Fuck convention,” Geralt growls and his hips begin to stutter; rutting with animalistic intent. “It’s your fucking life. If you don’t like it, change it. ”</p><p>Jaskier actually climaxes not long afterwards. She can’t remember the last time she came from penetration alone. Never, perhaps. Soon afterwards, Jaskier feels Geralt’s cock twitch and spurt inside her, and it feels so fucking good that, for a moment, she can pretend that it feels <em>right</em>.</p><p>*</p><p>Geralt doesn’t loiter; he doesn’t trust himself to. </p><p>Jaskier had been a surprisingly good lay – she had been difficult to please but so fucking <em>loud</em> when he succeeded – and it had been invigorating and engaging throughout. It has been a long time since he felt like he was actively participating in sex and not just a participant. He can’t say why that distinction matters, but it does. Still. He won’t be passing by Oxenfurt again anytime soon, and he has learned over the years that most people lay with a Witcher only for the experience. Jaskier has already boasted about how varied her sex life is. A Witcher was a novelty, and even a naive nineteen-year-old will not envision Geralt as anything more – even if Geralt wanted anything more, which he emphatically does <em>not</em>. </p><p>Geralt rolls out of bed, disappointed with himself for harbouring such sentimental thoughts, and gathers the clothes strewn about the room. He dresses in silence and picks up his swords and his satchel before he dares to look back at Jaskier. </p><p>Jaskier looks fucking radiant. She is lounging on the narrow bed, still naked, and looking utterly debauched; bathed in the midday sun with her chestnut hair in a tangled array around her. Given how oddly shy she was about her body, he expected her to have covered herself already, but her eyes are heavy-lidded and there is a blissful smile on her face, and he concludes that perhaps the coupling was just as curative for her. </p><p>Geralt looks away before Jaskier can catch his eye. He should probably say something before his departure but ‘thanks’ seems dismissive and anything else seems too trite. Instead, he nods his farewell, and heads for the door.</p><p>The infamous Valda Marx stands outside, fuming and flabbergasted. Geralt smirks and widens the door just enough for her to see the evidence of their carnal entanglement, and then he walks down the halls of Oxenfurt Academy to the sound of Valda’s gasp of betrayal and Jaskier’s delighted laughter, feeling lighter than he’s felt in years. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jaskier remains floating in post-coital bliss until Valda decides to diversify her diatribe by throwing a book at Jaskier’s chest and Jaskier is suddenly forced to remember - <em>right, I have a body</em> - and the peaceful, otherworldly suspension she inhabited is shattered like the glass window of the Alchemy lab. </p><p>Jaskier startles out of bed and gathers her clothes with averted eyes. Her stomach is churning and her skin itches with discomfort. It’s possible that Valda is still spitting her curses when Jaskier leaves for the bathhouse but she wouldn’t fucking know because the blissful quietude in her head has been replaced with a loud, reverbating white noise.</p><p>This is what <em>always</em> happens. Even if the sex manages to be fine (or in this case, <em>fucking</em> <em>mindblowing</em>) she will still feel nauseous with disgust afterwards. Jaskier should have just offered the Witcher her mouth, or something else non-invasive, but she was caught up in the moment and, gods, those <em>muscles</em>…</p><p>She doesn’t even regret it, she realises. For the first time, Geralt may actually have been <em>worth</em> the sickening sensation that comes afterwards. </p><p>Jaskier scrubs away the remains of their coupling the best she can but the discomfort still remains. </p><p>-</p><p>That evening, Jaskier still feels discombobulated and despite telling herself she would never indulge in narcotics again, finds herself on the harbourside exchanging a handful of coin for a pouch of powdered fisstech. </p><p>-</p><p>Jaskier loses some hours. </p><p>By the time Valda finds her, she is standing waist deep in the Pontar, looking up at the stars and singing about brightness or darkness or something. “Do you think they’re happy?” she asks her best friend and arch nemesis as she wades into the water behind her. </p><p>Valda sighs and tugs at her arm. This is not the first time that Valda has found her like this; she will soon tire of Jaskier’s ‘dramatics’ just like everyone else has. “Come on,” Valda says, with another encouraging tug. “We should go. It’s dangerous for women to be out here alone.”</p><p>“Look,” Jaskier says, her eyes catching on the river, “The reflection…” Jaskier tilts her head, wondering how the transposed stars can seem so different from their source. “The stars seem so much sadder, don’t they? They’re not really themselves in the water. But... it’s still them. It’s strange, isn’t it? The same, yet different. I suppose a reflection of oneself can never really be true.”</p><p>“Fuck, Jas,” Valda swears, pivoting her face towards her with a stern hand on her chin and scrupulous eyes boring down like stars themselves. “How much did you take?”</p><p>
  <em>Stars. Stars are so pretty.</em>
</p><p>She doesn’t realise she’s kissing Valda until she’s gently pushing her away. </p><p>Valda sighs, and it sounds disappointed. “You don’t want this,” she says. </p><p>“No?” </p><p>“No,” Valda insists, and maybe she’s right because Valda is always fucking right.</p><p>Jaskier frowns and looks back down to the river, but there’s no stars in the water anymore, just Valda’s pretty sage dress, floating around them like a… like a metaphor. <em>Fuck</em>. How much <em>did</em> she take? “Your dress,” she states, apologetically. Jaskier is a burden to everyone, she knows this. Her one and only friend doesn’t even like her, and will like her even less now that she’s ruined her dress… <em>fuck</em>. </p><p>Valda shrugs and leads her out the river by their clasped hands. “It’ll be fine. It is a noblewoman’s job to keep her washerwoman in work after all.”</p><p>Jaskier snorts. “It’s a noblewoman’s job to get <em>bred</em>.”</p><p>“<em>Sweet Melitele</em>,” Valda swears, swivelling Jaskier towards her once they’re on the shore. “Is that what this is about? Witchers are sterile, you nitwit. You’re not pregnant.”</p><p>“I know,” Jaskier replies numbly, eyes averted. “I know.”</p><p>Valda leads her back to their dorm where she strips Jaskier and puts her to bed like a small child. Jaskier ought to feel humiliated for such an infantilising act but as she falls asleep with Valda’s gentle hands soothing her hair, she feels comforted at last. </p><p>*</p><p>Geralt spends the afternoon on a hunt, and the night under the stars, and the next morning waiting at the smithey as Jackson repairs the nick in his sword. With any luck, he will be on the Path again by midday, and can reach the location of his next contract before sundown. He makes a stop at the farrier to fit Roach with new shoes and when he looks down at the pitiful amount of coin he has left, he acknowledges, once again, that he really should have bartered with Professor Gascoigne for more than fifty crowns. </p><p>He only has twenty coins remaining – enough for a loaf of bread and a handful of potion ingredients, but by no means enough to ask Jackson to tend to his armour. He’s been living contract to contract since Blaviken soured his reputation ten years ago and he doesn’t know how much longer he can live like this. One day soon, his armour will become too damaged to protect him, or his swords will become too blunt to cut, and he will die in the jaws of a beast. </p><p>Geralt doesn’t have the luxury to consider much else. He certainly doesn’t have time to contemplate how resplendent Jaskier looked yesterday lying in the midday sun, or recall the bitter taste of ink on her lips, or the sound of her laughter as bright as the morn...</p><p>But when he sees a familiar chaotic sprawl of chestnut hair on the waterfront, windswept by the southerly breeze, it consumes every other thought. Jaskier appears to be pacing the same stretch of shore, over and over, her eyes unfocused as if lost in the depths of her mind. There is a restless energy about her and a scent of anxiety on the breeze. Geralt pauses by the fisherman’s hut, undecided. There is no reason why he should interfere, but once again, he finds that the mystery of Julia Pancratz draws him in.</p><p>He greets her and Jaskier yelps and jumps a good few feet in surprise. “Geralt?” she exclaims, with one hand over her heart and the other waving in vexation before her. “<em>Holy… fiddlesticks</em>, Geralt, did no one ever tell you not to sneak up on people like that?”</p><p>Geralt shuffles his feet, oddly nervous. “Uh, sorry. You looked distressed.”</p><p>Jaskier throws her hands in the air. It’s not very ladylike. Then again, nothing Jaskier does is at all ladylike. “No shit,” she bites with a shake of her head. She spares Geralt a glance then audibly exhales and looks out towards the river with her hands on her hips.</p><p>He supposes he ought to progress this discussion somehow. “Are you… alright?” he attempts.</p><p>Jaskier rolls her eyes. Right. He supposes the answer to that is fairly obvious.</p><p>He tries again, “Is there anything I can do?”</p><p>Jaskier opens her mouth. Closes it again. And then she looks at him with a scrupulous, considering expression. “Would you…?” she shakes her head again, and it sends her long hair careening. “Ah, no, never mind, it’s silly.”</p><p>Geralt frowns. They barely know each other, yet he wants to help in whatever way he can. “Tell me.”</p><p>Jaskier sighs and tilts her head to the sky. It didn’t take long for Geralt to observe that Jaskier is very physically communicative; everything she thinks or feels is somehow communicated through her body language. It’s fascinating. Jaskier is always moving, like a hummingbird incapable of sitting still, and it’s so unlike his own still stoicism that he can’t help but be intrigued. After a moment of what seems like deep and exasperated contemplation, Jaskier looks aside at him with a skeptical squint. “Come to the barbers with me?”</p><p>Geralt attempts to school his surprise but he is fairly certain that a raised eyebrow gets through.</p><p>This gesture must be enough to trigger Jaskier’s nervous rambling, because then she’s rubbing the back of her neck and saying, “It’s just… well, I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday, about how sometimes you don’t know what’s right until you know what’s wrong. You said it’s a process of trial and error. And I hate my hair,” she says, illustrating her point by yanking on a long strand stuck between her lips. “And you said… well, anyway, it occured to me that…” She shrugs and scuffs her oddly masculine boots on the shoreline.  “Well, it’s something to try.”</p><p>Geralt nods. The story may have been relayed chaotically but the logic is sound. “I was going to the barber’s anyway.”</p><p>Jaskier looks at him with wide, hopeful eyes. “You were?”</p><p>No. “Yes.” Geralt breaks the gaze and clears his throat, feeling oddly flustered under the attention. He tilts his head back towards town. “Let’s go.”</p><p>*</p><p>It’s just a ‘fuck you’ to nobility, Jaskier reassures herself at the first snip of scissors. Just a little rebellion like everything else she does. It’s only shoulder length; not short enough to bar her from banquets and balls, only short enough to grant her a few scathing looks from noblemen. It’s fine. It’s <em>fine</em>.</p><p>“Don’t get many ladies of your station requesting a trim this short…” the barber is muttering. “Then again, fashions change so fast nowadays. It’s very kind of your husband to –”</p><p>“Not my husband,” Jaskier hurriedly interjects. She flushes bright red and watches Geralt out the corner of her eye. He’s been standing in the corner pretending to read a poster for a theatre performance. It’s possible that the barber did not clock the amber eyes and without the Witcher’s swords… well, it’s possible he was overlooked. Geralt most certainly heard that awkward exchange though. Jaskier smiles at the barber across the mirror, hoping it looks vaguely polite. “And I’ll be paying for myself, and whatever my friend requires. It’s the least I can do.”</p><p>“That’s not necessary,” a voice grumbles from the corner, and all kudos to the barber who only jumps minutely at the unexpected interruption. </p><p>Jaskier meets Geralt’s eyes in the mirror and hates how soft her voice sounds when she says, “Yes. Yes, it is,” because she had noticed the dire state of his clothing and how light his coin purse was and it wasn’t hard to put two and two together. Jaskier tears her eyes away and attempts to calm her beating heart. Their coupling was pleasant yesterday but she harboured no illusions that it would be repeated. Witchers only pass through towns, after all, so Geralt won’t be returning.</p><p>The barber clears his throat and checks the lengths with his fingers. “Sorry, ma’am, didn’t mean to offend.”</p><p>“You didn’t,” Jaskier says, with a forced smile. “Just not the marrying kind, is all. At least… I hope not.” Tears spring to her eyes and she’s so humiliated at her inability to suppress an emotion that by now she should be adept at withholding. She may be the youngest of her siblings and permitted to play the rebellious child for now, but she knows that one day soon her parents will shackle her (figuratively or otherwise) and have her carted off to be wed and bred like the rest of their stock. She is already all but promised to one of the Hindsfeld sons, one of them need only to click their fingers and… </p><p>“All done,” the barber says, just as the nausea was starting to overwhelm her. </p><p>Jaskier is jolted out of her spiralling thoughts and opens her eyes to see a new person before her. It’s just a haircut. It shouldn’t make any difference. But it <em>does</em>. She has not had her hair so short since she was a child. A literal weight has been taken off her shoulders, but it took with it a metaphorical weight too. She feels lighter. She looks different. Something’s… <em>changed</em>. </p><p>*</p><p>Geralt continues to find Jaskier endlessly intriguing. The small talk by the barber sent her heart racing but the way her shoulders sagged in relief afterwards… he doesn’t understand it, and he hates that he wants to. There is no room in his life for an infatuation such as this. </p><p>Jaskier is grinning afterwards, skipping through the streets with a very literal spring in her steps. Geralt watches, bemused and besotted, and absently ends up walking Jaskier down the streets to the Southern Isle where the Academy resides. </p><p>Jaskier spins on her heel to face him just as they approach the gates to the institution. “Can I interest you in a little afternoon delight?” she asks with a coy smile. </p><p>Geralt rolls his eyes, amused by the easy flirtation, and also slightly disconcerted that it has passed midday without his knowledge. “Don’t you ever have classes?”</p><p>“It’s the weekend.”</p><p>
  <em>Is it?</em>
</p><p>“So... is that a ‘yes’?”</p><p>Geralt sighs. The temptation is greater than he would like to admit, but he cannot (quite literally) afford to delay his journey even if he were susceptible to Jaskier’s charms. “I need to leave posthaste if I’m to arrive at the nekker nest before sundown.” </p><p>“Always working,” Jaskier says with a tilted head and a smile that ought to be mocking but somehow just seems fond. “Very well, dear Witcher.”</p><p>She surprises him by reaching to cup his freshly shaved jaw and pressing a lingering kiss against his cheek. The chaste touch sends a thrill down his spine in a way their intimacies yesterday did not achieve. His hand awkwardly reaches for her face but changes direction at the last moment, passing his rough hands through her soft, chestnut hair instead. </p><p>“It looks good,” he murmurs, as Jaskier steps back. “Your hair,” he clarifies. </p><p>Jaskier smiles sweetly and something stirs deep in Geralt’s chest. “Yeah?” she asks, playing with the coarse ends herself in mild contemplation. “I’m glad you think so. All thanks to you, of course.”</p><p>Geralt breaks the earnest gaze. They are fooling themselves if they think that there is something more here. He cannot afford such distractions on the Path. He clears his throat and hoists his satchel further up his shoulders, just to give his hands something to do other than reach for Jaskier. “Take care of yourself,” he says, and finds that he means it.</p><p>Jaskier smiles softly, and her eyes linger. “You too, my friend.” And Geralt wonders if she might mean it too. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>warning for misgendering: Jaskier has started using they/them pronouns in this chapter but hasn’t yet asked people to refer to them as such. Consequently, Geralt still thinks of Jaskier as she/her. Geralt will cotton on soon enough but for now it might be a little jarring when we switch to his POV.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jaskier was, by now, fairly certain that they were not a woman. </p><p>Geralt had demolished two decades of gendered bullshit with that casual “fuck convention” line of his, and as soon as Jaskier had cut their hair and felt one hundred percent better for it, they started trying other things too. Until, one drunken evening, Jaskier had dared to walk into the Rosebud on drag night and realised that, actually, gender is entirely performative. </p><p>Jaskier had been raised to believe that gender was conscriptive – you had whatever anatomy you had, and thus had to present that way – but one night at the Rosebud was enough for Jaskier to unlearn this falsehood. Jaskier went to bed with a man in a dress and a woman with her breasts bound, and after seven months in Oxenfurt, finally found a place where they belonged. </p><p>Jaskier still hadn’t quite discovered exactly what was <em>right</em> in terms of their own gender, but they knew at least some of what was <em>wrong</em>.</p><p>Valda seemed suspicious when Jaskier bestowed her their remaining dresses but accepted the gift anyway, perhaps because she knew she looked stunning in cornflower blue. The closest Valda came to commenting on Jaskier’s recent changes was at a party they both attended a couple of months ago. <em>“Your new friends…”</em> she said with contemplation. <em>“They’re… well, they’re quite something, aren’t they?” </em>Considering Valda’s propensity to talk shit about everything and everyone, her careful avoidance of Jaskier’s recent gender exploration read as approval, or at least support. The two of them have always challenged each other intellectually and artistically, and so perhaps her gentle encouragement to pursue this aspect of self-actualisation was no different.  </p><p>It’s been six months of thinking about gender, and six months of trying not to think about Geralt. </p><p>-</p><p>A knock sounds in the early hours of the morning. </p><p>Jaskier startles awake and reaches for the dagger stashed under their pillow as Valda gasps awake across the room.</p><p>A moment passes, then another knock sounds.</p><p>Valda groans, buries her head under the pillow and mutters, “If this is another one of your eccentric nightly visitors –”</p><p>“Oh hush,” Jaskier says, tossing the blankets aside and struggling out of bed. They’re not expecting a visitor of an intimate nature but thieves and murderers do not usually <em>knock</em>. “You’re just jealous of my popularity –”</p><p>“Between the sheets, perhaps,” she is quick to clarify. “But we both know I have the stage.”</p><p>“In your dreams,” Jaskier retorts, but whatever other vicious insults they were about to throw fall to the wayside as Jaskier recognises the familiar shadow cast outside their door, and then, the man belonging to it. No armour, no swords, just a delectable Witcher in a button-down shirt. “Geralt.”</p><p>*</p><p>It’s been six months since Geralt last occupied the hallways of Oxenfurt Academy. He hadn’t intended to return. But he'd had a shitty fucking day at the end of a shitty fucking week, and all he wanted at the end of it was a good drink and a good fuck. He got one of those for two crowns down at the tavern, but the other… well. He stashed his belongings in a hidden alcove above the stables and then came to find the one person in all of Oxenfurt who might actually indulge his desires. </p><p>The very sight of Jaskier soothes something within him; a burden lifted from his shoulders at the sight of that cautious smile. It’s been six long months. “Geralt,” she says, and it’s so soft and so wary; surprised, but not disappointed. </p><p>Jaskier looks different. Her hair is still shoulder length and artfully messy but there’s a different slant to her shoulders and her stance is bolder; like a hidden strength displayed. She is dressed in a man’s tunic, long enough to act as a nightdress, and he experiences a sudden stab of fear that Jaskier’s bed is already occupied for the night – but no, her scent is hers alone and the only other heartbeat comes from her roomate – this must be her own shirt then. It’s odd. And oddly attractive. A woman in man’s clothing is something he has seen plenty of times before, and he knows plenty of people that walk that line – and some people that walk past it, for that matter – but he has never before found it so attractive. </p><p>Geralt clears his throat, certain that there had been things he had wanted to say before his thoughts had derailed at the sight of Jaskier. “Sorry, I know it’s late –”</p><p>“It’s fine.”</p><p>There are muffled curses from inside the room, and Geralt assumes that his presence has been noted and disapproved of by Jaskier’s insipid roommate.</p><p>Before Geralt can summon more words, Jaskier tosses aside the weak little knife she was holding and blurts, “Is this a cockerel call?”</p><p>“Uh… I don’t know what that is.”</p><p>Jaskier sighs and rolls her eyes fondly. There is a teasing tilt to her lips that he missed more than he ought. “Are you here for sex, Geralt?”</p><p>Geralt startles. He is. But now his desires have been stated so crassly, he hears just how crass it really is; how base his assumptions were. Jaskier is no whore. He can’t just turn up six months later expecting –</p><p>“I’d be very much interested – to be clear –” Jaskier says, and Geralt starts breathing again, “but unfortunately I am burdened to share my rooms with a poor vestal virgin,” she says, with a dramatic hand over her heart and a pitying expression betrayed by an amused uptick of lips, “who would be sure to expire after witnessing such magnificence. The girl’s just so sheltered, you see –”</p><p>Something hits the back of Jaskier’s head. A pillow, perhaps. Jaskier laughs and rubs the wound, her teasing giving way to genuine coyness; eyes darting to Geralt’s face as if unsure.</p><p>Geralt licks his lips at the sight of Jaskier’s oddly shy behaviour. There is a blush on her cheeks that he wants to hold in his hands. “Yes,” he confirms clumsily. “I am here for…” He clears his throat. “That is, if you are amenable.” </p><p>Jaskier shakes her head with a laugh. “Never thought I’d see the day when a Witcher was on my doorstep begging to –”</p><p>“I’m not begging.”</p><p>“No, but you are asking very nicely, and I’m given to understand that means much the same thing.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt growls. He has already learned that keeping up with Jaskier’s linguistic acrobatics is a fool’s errand. He’d much rather accept the defeat.</p><p>Jaskier smiles wolfishly, and grabs his hand. Even this simple touch is too much after months of solitude and sends his blood pumping. “Follow me,” she says with a wink, closing the door behind her, “I happen to know somewhere that will be deserted at this hour. Also, <em>surprisingly</em> soundproofed.”</p><p>*</p><p>Jaskier is torn. On the one hand, Geralt is a fantastic lay, on the other… the thought of penetration fills them with dread. Sometimes their mind seems okay with the concept of owning a vagina, and on other days the very idea is like nails on chalkboards. Today is one of those jarring days of dissociation and Jaskier curses all the gods that made it so. The sex was good last time and maybe could be that good again… but Jaskier also remembered what happened <em>afterwards</em> and knows that the consequences, this time, would be significantly worse if they attempted the feat in this mindset. </p><p>Nerves and anxiety twist in their stomach because the question is: Would Geralt even want to lay with them otherwise? Would he be content with another act or is he traditional enough to want nothing else other than the expected?</p><p>*</p><p>Geralt grunts his approval as Jaskier shows him to a communal bathhouse. There is a large pool set into the ground, with a couple of smaller tubs around the side, and a couple of slanting shutes on the nearest wall, presumably waterfall-type contraptions. The room is just as pretentious as everything else at Oxenfurt Academy, but it will suit their needs just fine. The light from the full moon shines through the glass ceiling, painting the interior an eerie blue. Jaskier looks ethereal in this light; eyes shining, skin translucent. She’s rambling about the history of the building but Geralt is transfixed by the movement of her mouth and the fast, crafty tongue within.</p><p>He’s kissing her before he’s fully cognisant of it. The touch is exhilarating; waking parts of him that have laid dormant since their last coupling. He rushed this part last time, he thinks. He did not spend enough time to catalogue her taste, or her manner, or the feel of her fingers tightening in his hair. She kisses back just as intensely, just enough to fool him into thinking that he might not be the only one feeling the touch this deeply. </p><p>“Can we…?” Jaskier gasps into their kisses as his hands begin to roam. “This time… I don’t want to…”</p><p>Geralt withdraws to examine Jaskier’s expression. There is a wince on her face and a matching blush. “Not inside?” he hazards. It’s a common enough request: from those who don’t realise he is sterile, and from those who find sex during menstruation embarassing or uncomfortable. Presumably, it is the latter, although he has not sensed the monthlies on her. </p><p>“Um, yeah,” Jaskier says, as red as Geralt’s ever seen her. “If that’s okay?”</p><p>Geralt shrugs. Of course it’s okay. There are many other things they can do to find release. “Between folds?”</p><p>Jaskier raises an eyebrow. Perhaps that is not what she was expecting. But then her eyes are darting and her lips are twitching into a smile and he’s being pulled into a kiss so filthy that even a working woman would be proud of it. “Yes,” she gasps, as his hands slip under the tunic to find that she is wearing nothing else at all. “Yes, that’s good.”</p><p>The scent of her arousal dismantles his last ounce of patience as he unlaces his breeches and walks them towards the wall, kissing her and caressing her the entire way. He is careful with his hands, remembering how the touch against her breasts had made her tense last time, but that a hand in the small of her back made her melt. His attentiveness is rewarded with grasping fingers and exquisite sighs and his name whispered brokenly against his ear. He growls and pulls her closer, enthralled by each and every sound. </p><p>Geralt intends to get straight to business as soon as Jaskier’s back is pressed against the wall but it’s been a long few months and Jaskier kisses so eagerly that he can’t tear himself away. After a moment, he gives into temptation and moves his hands to her rear, urging her legs to wrap around him and rucking her tunic upwards so he can rock his erection into the naked valley of her legs as they trade kiss after kiss. The position doesn’t cause enough friction to be functional but a different warmth spreads through him instead and it feels so good that he’s reluctant to leave the embrace.</p><p>After several minutes of this blissful torture, Jaskier garbles a curse against his lips and throws her head back against the wall. “I could kiss you ‘til sunrise,” Jaskier bemoans, “but I fear we do not have that long.”</p><p>Geralt grunts at the well-needed reminder of their predicament, because Jaskier wasn’t the only one who could have spent the entire night tangled in that embrace. Reluctantly, he lowers her to the ground and arranges them into a more practical position; turning Jaskier until her hands are braced on the wall before them and her back is pressed against his chest. He releases his hardness with a relieved grunt and uses his fingers to open the valley of her folds before him. The first slide of their naked flesh fills the deserted bathhouse with their moans, and when Geralt leans forward to brace himself against the wall, he must accidentally trigger the summons for the waterfall as lukewarm water begins to cascade from the pipes and down onto their coupling. </p><p>Jaskier yelps and bucks and laughs as their bodies are rapidly soaked to the bone.</p><p>“Sorry,” Geralt murmurs, but he can’t really be sorry for the translucence of Jaskier’s clothing and the wet slide of their bodies. </p><p>Jaskier laughs and loops her hand around Geralt’s neck to urge him closer. “Don’t be. Though I’m afraid it will last until the bucket is empty. A good five minutes or so.”</p><p>Geralt grunts and digs his teeth into Jaskier’s bare shoulder, well aware that in his highly aroused state, he likely won’t even make it the full five minutes. Jaskier has already wormed her way under his skin – like that damn weed she chose as her moniker – and every touch between them sends his head spinning and his heart pounding. </p><p>He wants their lovemaking to last for an eternity, but it doesn’t; it lasts until the steady stream of water slows to a drip. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>many thanks to the folks on discord, especially beppi, who helped me find a medieval equivalent of “booty call” - the things we do for Witcher fic, honestly</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Geralt must know. He <em>must</em>. Jaskier tallies the evidence in their head as Geralt spurts his seed between their folds and grunts against their ear in that beautiful guttural way of his… <em>fuck</em>, he <em>must</em> know – Jaskier’s masculine clothes, their request to avoid penetration, the way Geralt avoids their breasts like he <em>knows </em>it’s uncomfortable – he must <em>know</em>. </p><p>Geralt will realise he’s no longer sleeping with a woman (and perhaps never <em>was</em>) and will never request their company again. Theortically, Jaskier supposes, it’s possible that Geralt could be queer, but even then, it was unlikely he would be queer enough to withstand whatever the fuck is going on in Jaskier’s head right now. Even Jaskier’s mates down at the Rosebud will not lay with Jaskier for more than one night, and why would they? No one wants to be involved with someone who doesn’t even know who they <em>are</em>. No. As soon as Geralt realises that Jaskier is no longer Julia, he will be gone.</p><p>Jaskier shakes their head, discarding the excess water from their hair and excess melancholy from their thoughts, as Geralt untangles himself from their coupling and steps away. Between them, the water of the shower finally slows to a drip. Jaskier’s thoughts slow in tandem as reality falls back around them…  and they remember that it doesn’t matter <em>what</em> Geralt makes of them because Geralt is not even an option to consider. Geralt may have returned once, but that didn’t mean that he had any intention of returning again. It was good fuck, and they ought to leave it at that. </p><p>Jaskier turns back to see Geralt lacing up his breeches with a concentrated frown on his face. Water has soaked his clothes clean through and Jaskier can’t imagine a Witcher carries many spare clothes on his travels. It’s early Spring, there might still be a frost on the ground, he will surely freeze if he journeys outside like this pre-dawn –</p><p>“Stay,” Jaskier offers before the word has even passed through their faculty for common fucking sense. <em>Stay</em> <em><span class="u">where</span></em>? <em>Snuggled up in your single cot with Valda glaring at you from across the room?</em></p><p>Geralt shakes his head. “I’ll sleep in the stables, it’s fine.”</p><p>Jaskier wrinkles their nose in distaste. It doesn’t sound ‘fine’ in the slightest but if sleeping in a pile of horse shit is preferable to Jaskier’s company… well, Geralt wouldn’t be the first one to think so. </p><p>Geralt pulls his wet and unruly hair into a queue and fixes it in place with a scrap of red leather. The sight is somehow both sexy and utterly endearing and Jaskier licks their lips as they attempt to process the intriguing juxtaposition. </p><p>“Well, uh, thanks,” Geralt says, looking anywhere but at Jaskier. “I’ll see you around.”</p><p>Jaskier blinks, dumbfounded, because surely ‘see you around’ implies that Geralt is <em>planning to return</em>. Jaskier cannot breathe as Geralt’s eyes snap to theirs.<em> Does he not realise that I’ve changed? Does he know and not <span class="u">care</span>? Fuck. Maybe... Could he possibly… Could they maybe...?</em></p><p>Opposite him, Geralt blinks back, perhaps just as stupefied by his declaration. He averts his eyes and nods his head in farewell, and then he’s gone, and Jaskier is left, dripping wet and standing bereft in the empty bathhouse. </p><p>-</p><p>A little while later, Jaskier returns to their room, still damp and euphoric (and still reeling from the absurd notion that the Witcher might actually enjoy their company), and is surprised to see Valda waiting up for them. </p><p>Valda is sitting on her bed with her knees drawn and a copy of that shitty romance novel, <em>Moribundia</em>, resting upon them. Her blonde hair has since been braided into a long single plait that falls over her left shoulder and the candle on her bedside has nearly burned down to its wick. </p><p>“You’re back,” she states.</p><p>“You waited up?” Jaskier asks, concurrently. </p><p>They look at each other, and then look away. Jaskier wonders just how debauched they look and whether they ought to have tried harder to scrub the smell of sex off their skin. </p><p>Valda sighs and tosses her book onto the bedside table. “The last time you fucked the Witcher, I found you in the Pontar, high off your tits. You’ll forgive me for being concerned.”</p><p>Jaskier is, actually, very touched, but they obviously can’t let Valda know this, so instead they faint dramatically against the closed door and cast an arm across their eyes. “Oh, my sweetest Valdoria,” they exclaim, thrilling in the way Valda’s nose scrunches in distaste at the sound of her full name, “I never knew you cared so! Please, my love! You must write to my father posthaste and declare your earnest affections so that we might be wed by Spring.”</p><p>Valda glares and Jaskier breaks their playacting with a laugh, pushing themself up from the door. </p><p>“Or is that not how your romances go?” Jaskier teases.</p><p>The last vestiges of Valda’s concern disappear with this familiar goading and she settles into her usual defensive state; arms crossed, eyes narrowed, tongue sharp. “It’s simply shocking that after seven months of studying the Bardic Arts at the Continent’s most prestigious Academy you have still failed to learn the importance of specificity. By your vague ‘romances’ I do not know whether you insult my reading habits or my choice of bed partner.”</p><p>Jaskier smirks and starts preparing for bed, tying their own hair into a loose queue to sleep in. “For the sake of your ego, let’s say the former, as we all know how dull your romantic affairs are in this realm –”</p><p>“Dull?!” she exclaims, affronted. “The Botany professor had me over the table just last week –”</p><p>“Yes, and not for the first time,” Jaskier drawls. “You ought to try a new position. I can teach you one if you like,” they add with a wink. </p><p>Valda rolls her eyes. The two of them haven’t fucked since their first week here but flirting and fighting are much the same thing. “Seriously, Jas… You alright?”</p><p>Jaskier shrugs as they return the dagger beneath their pillow. Truthfully, they’ve no idea. The sex was fine this time, no lasting effects, but it still wasn’t as fulfilling as they had hoped. Something was missing. Perhaps it’s because they had kissed for so long that Jaskier had yearned for it to be representative of real affection. Geralt was godlike, and fascinating, and surprisingly kind. Jaskier had wanted him to stay; they had wanted to fall asleep beside him, and wake with a kiss, and travel with him in the morn… Jaskier just <em>wanted</em>. </p><p>Jaskier realises they are falling in love with a Witcher, and a second later, realises that they are an utter <em>fool</em>. </p><p>Valda must sense this revelation even in the darkness because she sighs in sympathy and shuffles over, lifting the covers to invite Jaskier into bed. </p><p>Jaskier hesitates. It’s pathetic, but awfully tempting. Valda may be their arch nemesis but her soft curves and sweet scent are familiar and safe, and they just want to curl up in someone’s arms right now, even if it’s not the <em>right</em> someone. Perhaps a warm embrace might ease the sight of Geralt walking away. </p><p>Jaskier sighs in defeat and blows out the candle. They nestle into Valda’s arms and let the presence of their best friend lull them to sleep.</p><p>*</p><p>Geralt greets Roach with a stroke on her muzzle and a few stolen oats in his palm. He could barely even afford the stabling this time. He thought people would have forgotten about Blaviken by now, but it seems ‘the Butcher’ has become embedded in these people’s folklore, and instead of things getting better, they are steadily getting <em>worse</em>. He needs to find a way to permanently fix his sullied reputation. </p><p>He shakes his head, his mind too muddled by alcohol and sex to contemplate such concerns with the necessary gravitas. Geralt climbs into the rafters and retrieves his pack and swords, checking them over for damage, before bedding down beside Roach. Hopefully she won’t kick him in the night; Roach doesn’t like sharing her stall but they’ve little choice of late. </p><p>“Don’t worry,” he murmurs to her. “We’ll be back on the road again soon.”</p><p>The colours of dawn are already seeping into the thick blanket of night so he won’t promise to leave by morning; it might be a couple of hours past sunrise before he is rested enough to travel. </p><p>Roach shifts beside him, her warm weight settling against his back, and when he cracks open an eye to observe her strange behaviour, he finds her sitting on her haunches, watching him with curious eyes. He knows his steed well enough to recognise an interrogation. </p><p>“Sorry, I had… someone to meet,” he explains, but his excuses sound weak even to his ears. They should have stayed on the Path. He didn’t have the coin to entertain such diversions and they both knew it. </p><p>Roach snorts and sniffs at his hair.</p><p>He laughs and lets her nuzzle at him, wondering if she can smell Jaskier’s scent on his skin. He can – ink, sycamore, parchment, soap, mead – and it’s more distracting than it has any right to be.</p><p>“You’re right,” he says, scratching at her ears. “I shouldn’t…” he frowns and shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have returned.”</p><p>Roach is unnervingly silent during this declaration and even goes so far as to cease her affections. He feels guilty. He feels torn. He feels… too much. </p><p>Geralt turns to her with contemplation. “I said that I would…” he twists his lips, never before being so afraid to voice his fears to his friend. “I said that I would return again. Rather, I implied it. I don’t know if that thought thrills me or terrifies me... I barely even know Jaskier –” <em>but I want to</em>. “I think they’re going through something and I should…” he swallows his nerves. “I shouldn’t get involved.” He sighs, knowing that he will, undoubtedly, get involved. </p><p>He settles back down and allows himself to indulge in a little fantasy… one where he <em>stays</em>. The first time they met, Jaskier had invited him to the clocktower, and the next day, had invited him to the barbers. This time, the bathhouse. He wonders what Jaskier would have proposed this time had Geralt stayed until morning. Would they have attended class together? Or sailed a boat into the Pontar? Would they just have stayed in bed and made love for hours? Jaskier is so unpredictable that he <em>doesn’t know</em>. After a hundred years of the same old people doing the same old shit, Jaskier is like a breath of fresh air. </p><p>The thought of lying beside Jaskier now – the gentle breathing, the tickle of hair, the soft skin, the taste of spilled ink, the sigh exhaled between lips when he <em>kisses</em>...</p><p>Roach headbutts him as if she senses his traitorous thoughts. Right. He should not be thinking of kissing Jaskier. He should not be thinking of Jaskier at all. </p><p>“You’re right,” he sighs, turning on his side. “I should sleep. Forget all about the blue-eyed bard of Oxenfurt halls.”</p><p>Geralt shivers in his damp clothes, weighed down by his heavy heart, and is oddly comforted by the warm presence of his steadfast friend by his side. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I've written demos of all three songs mentioned in this chapter - just click on them when they come up :-)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s early summer when Geralt sees the flyer for the Oxenfurt Bardic Festival. He’s browsing a village noticeboard somewhere in the wilderness of Redania when the logo of Oxenfurt Academy catches his eye, and he finds himself jotting down the festival date in his journal. He recalls, somewhere in Professor Gascoigne’s disparagement of her students, mentioning that their final projects are due around this time. There may also have been a comment about the first year bardic students performing on the first day of the festival in the field by Novigrad Gate. Geralt doesn’t know why he cared to remember that particular detail but he has, and he reasons that Jackson ought to see to his armour in any case. </p><p>He completes the contract for the missing soldier, collects his coin from the widow, and then he finds himself, once more, on the road to Oxenfurt.</p><p>-</p><p>He arrives early in the morning on the first day. Geralt settles Roach in the stables and then takes care of his own appearance by way of the bathhouse and the barber. He dresses in his cleanest black shirt (which is to say, the least bloody) and examines the packed streets for a festival programme. </p><p>He finds a copy, at last, in the hands of the armourer. Jackson accepts his armour and swords for repair, and when they break out their gwent cards, Geralt casually inquires about the scheduling for the day.</p><p>“Why you interested in the first years?” Jackson grunts, while he tosses down Torrential Rain. It renders Geralt’s entire line of siege cards practically useless. He’s not paying attention. Geralt throws the hand and readies for the next round while he attempts to find a plausible excuse.</p><p>“Contract?” Jaskson prompts.</p><p>Geralt grunts an affirmative, grateful for the assumption. </p><p>Jackson shrugs and tosses him the brochure. “This afternoon, a mile West. There’s twenty-odd of them, mind, so you gotta take your chances.”</p><p>Geralt nods his thanks.</p><p>Jackson plays a card or two before asking, “It’s not the girl, is it?”</p><p>“Hmm?” he asks, distracted by the game.</p><p>“Who you’ve been sent to kill? It’s not the girl? Word is the only decent bard in that year is the girl. Victoria or whatever her name is. Well, that and the queer one, but I dunno –”</p><p>“Valdoria,” Geralt corrects mindlessly, annoyed that he even bothered to remember the roommate’s name. “And no, I don’t kill people.” It is only after he has lost yet another hand that the second part of the sentence catches up to him. “What do you mean ‘the queer one?’”</p><p>-</p><p>Geralt understands Jackson’s impression as soon as he lays eyes on Jaskier. <em>“The girl who’s a boy or whatever their whole deal is, hangs ‘round the Rosebud on drag night with the rest of those gender-bending freaks.” </em>Geralt hadn’t taken kindly to the word ‘freak’ and had made his displeasure known but the rest of Jackson’s assessment seems to be accurate as Jaskier swaggers onto the stage, appearing more masculine than ever before. </p><p>Geralt attributes the sudden prickling of heat under his skin to the bright sun, but just like last time, the mere sight of Jaskier seems to do something to him. Unburdens him, excites him, confuses him… Jaskier looks different now. She – no, that doesn’t seem quite right any more – <em>they</em> are dressed in breeches and a doublet in a shocking shade of turquoise, with short hair around their ears, and a blush on their cheeks that is natural, not painted. If Geralt had not met this person before, he would have assumed that Jaskier was a young man, not the noblewoman that he had first met. </p><p>Jaskier has barely taken their position when the crowd start to jeer.</p><p>Geralt is momentarily stunned. The chorus of colourful insults and sneers that rise from the crowd are eerily similar to the ones that he receives on the Path. His teeth grind. His fist clenches. He wants to tear them apart. If he hadn’t left his possessions (and most notably, his <em>swords</em>) with Jackson, then he would be sorely tempted to initiate something. </p><p>Jaskier, for what it’s worth, seems completely nonplussed. Jaskier casually ducks the rotten fruit thrown at them, and artfully turns the motion into a twirl, as they strike the first chord on the lute.</p><p>Jaskier looks towards the wings and gives someone a minute shake of their head. Geralt follows their eyes and catches sight of blonde hair behind the curtains. Valda. Her body is thrumming with the exact same repressed rage that Geralt possesses but before either of them can enact their revenge on the crowd, Jaskier starts to <em>sing</em>. </p><p>It’s a deep alto – rich and captivating and joyful – and Jaskier’s silken voice effortlessly drowns out the taunts of the crowd. It’s <a href="https://vands38.tumblr.com/post/620351669053554688/from-the-fic-return-to-oxenfurt-by-vands88-the">a drinking song</a> or something and Geralt watches in awe as the very people who had been spitting on the performer a moment ago start to stomp their feet in time to the music. </p><p>Geralt locks eyes with Valda but whereas he is reeling in shock, she seems entirely unsurprised by this turn of events. She looks <em>smug</em> even. She watches Jaskier for another minute with a peculiar combination of a satisfied grin and a piercing glare before darting back out of sight. Curious. Perhaps Valda is not quite as simple as he had first supposed. </p><p>Geralt turns his attention back to Jaskier as they start on their second song – a dramatic retelling of a myth about a shapeshifting doppler – and wonders how Jaskier can turn the tide so quickly with no more than their charm and their song.</p><p>Geralt casts his eyes to the panel of judges and notes with the same unearned pride that they seem to be enjoying the performance too. At this, he finally allows himself to relax and unfurls the fist from beside him. When he looks back to the stage, he is startled to find Jaskier looking right back. </p><p>*</p><p>Well, this is going swimmingly. Jaskier catches Valda’s eye and encourages her to <em>chill the fuck out</em>. They both knew this would happen. Jaskier has a reputation and it’s not one that the usual pub goers understand, let alone tolerate. Jaskier takes a deep breath and sings the first note, slipping into the beautiful world of music and song, far away from these narrow-minded fools and their ignorant words. </p><p>It’s the end of year festival and their final grade relies upon putting in a good performance. They’ve been training all year for this. Their academic grades are fine but performing is really where their talent lies. If Jaskier can just make them <em>listen…</em> </p><p>Jaskier starts with a drinking song because everyone likes a good drinking song. Their prediction is right and it’s not long before the hecklers turn from laughing <em>at</em> the performer, to laughing along with the song. They turn from bemused, to amused, to actively appeased. By the end of ‘Drink ‘Til Your Sorrows Turn To Joy’, the louts are cheering and laughing and raising their tankards in praise. </p><p>Somehow, Jaskier keeps the audience captivated enough to begin <a href="https://vands38.tumblr.com/post/623737008538386432/from-the-fic-return-to-oxenfurt-by-vands88-the">‘The Doppler’s Disguise’</a> in the revered silence it deserves. ‘The Doppler’s Disguise’ is a much more sincere song about a doppler without a sense of identity, who keeps trying on different faces in the hopes that one of them will feel real. It’s the composition that Jaskier is proudest of, even if the deeper meaning escapes most of these punters. A few audience members duck out at the sombre tone but the majority seem content to listen to the woeful tale.</p><p>Jaskier glances to the panel of judges to examine their reaction, praying that the music professor at least will give ‘The Doppler’s Disguise’ the grade it deserves, only to notice that the judges are already being scrutinised… by a Witcher.</p><p>Jaskier misses a note and grimaces, both at the error and at the uncanny situation that caused it. <em>What the fuck is Geralt doing here? Is he looking for me? How long has he been standing there? Does he even recognise me like this? Fuck, fuck, fuck… </em></p><p>Jaskier attempts to stay focused and does their utmost to turn the grimace into a smile because this is the most important day of their career thus far and cannot afford to let a gentleman caller – no matter how magnificent – to distract them from their work. This final performance could earn Jaskier the top grade of the year and knock Valda from the prestigious spot. <em>Just… focus. </em></p><p>And Jaskier does manage to focus, until they realise, with dread, what they chose for their third and final song.</p><p>“Uh,” Jaskier starts when the applause for ‘The Doppler’s Disguise’ dies down. “Thank you. Now, it’s time for something a little slower.” That wasn’t Jaskier’s planned intro, and it certainly scares off another couple of day drinkers, but Jaskier’s not about to say the words ‘love song’ when Geralt is standing right there in the goddamn crowd. Jaskier clears their throat, avoids Geralt’s eyes, and states in a shaky voice, “This one’s called <a href="https://vands38.tumblr.com/post/620613987763191808/from-the-fic-return-to-oxenfurt-by-vands88-the">‘Amber Eyes.’</a>” </p><p>Jaskier inhales deeply, steadying their nerves, and tells themself there’s nothing inherently obvious that this song is about Geralt. Sure, the Witcher’s eyes are amber, and the song is about lovers parting, but unless one is wise enough to translate the mention of ‘war’ as that of monster hunting it’s fairly opaque. Until, that is, Jaskier gets to the bridge and hears the words anew – </p><p>
  <em>Darling, if the madness of war ever fades,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Will you return and stay another day?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Oh, if I asked, would you stay another day?</em>
</p><p>And Jaskier remembers that, yeah, the last time they bid farewell, Jaskier was practically begging the Witcher to stay, much like the maiden in the song. </p><p>Fine. So it’s obviously about Geralt and it will be a bloody miracle if he doesn’t somehow notice that this maudlin song of futile pining was written about him. </p><p>Jaskier is so embarrassed that they avert their gaze until applause sounds, and as the last chord fades, Jaskier is startled to find a few sniffles and damp eyes among the crowd. A quick glance at the panel confirms that they are still consulting their notes; their score imminent. </p><p>Jaskier shuffles their feet and holds their breath; head tilted to the sky as they wait for their scores. Valda received a total of 32 points for her final performance. In order to win the year overall, Jaskier needs to earn only one more point than her to draw, and two more to win outright. </p><p>It’s during this nerve wracking moment that Jaskier finally summons the courage to look at Geralt. He’s still there, surprisingly. With his arms folded and a frown on his face. Eyes darting between the stage and the panel, as if he is also curious about the result. Jaskier’s chest warms; an unnerving sensation separate from that of the upcoming announcement. Geralt catches their eye and it’s like his whole face just… lightens. Bright eyes, soft smile, slumped shoulders, the way his loose hair flutters in the breeze…</p><p><em>Fuck</em>, the judges.</p><p>Jaskier returns his gaze to the panel just as they hold up their scores.</p><p>
  <em>Come on, come on, anything higher than 32… </em>
</p><p>Jaskier scans the raised boards and quickly calculates the total. </p><p><em>35</em>.</p><p>Jaskier exhales a huff of relieved laughter and tilts their head once more to the sky to blink back the tears that threaten to fall. They did it. Best performance. Top of the class. <em>Take that, Valda. Fuck you, Earl Lettenhove.</em></p><p>Jaskier takes a shaky breath and collects themself enough to bow to the judges. There is the widest smile on their face and when their eyes land on Geralt, they are overjoyed to see a hint of the joy returned. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The last song Jaskier played was aching tender, and beautiful, and melancholic. Something about a lover watching a man go to war. Geralt didn’t catch every word, and doesn’t have much of a head for poetry, all he knows is that the song installed a sudden need to wrap his arms around the bard.</p><p>It takes him a moment to cut through the crowd as the next young bard takes the stage and starts belting out some mediocre melody, and by the time he’s at the stage door, so many students have passed through that he cannot distinguish Jaskier’s scent at all. </p><p>Instead, he collars the first student he sees – “I’m looking for Jaskier” – and keeps asking until he finds his answer: “The first years will likely be at the university tent, Sir Witcher, due south, just over that rise.”</p><p>-</p><p>He finds Jaskier on the floor of the marquee, squirming beneath Valda, and for a moment fears that Jaskier has already sourced a bedmate for celebrations. Then he registers the cheering crowd, the breathless laughter, the slapped hands, and the colourful words thrown between them, and recognises their entanglement as the brawl it is. </p><p>“Fuck you! I hate you!” Valda yells while attempting to pin Jaskier to the ground.</p><p>“You love me,” Jaskier retorts, and raises their crotch against hers even though it makes no fucking sense to do so. That was a man’s taunt, and Jaskier, while equipped with female anatomy, does not have the erection to solidify the jab. </p><p>Regardless, the crowd cheers and Valda squirms away. “Three points?!” she exclaims, banging her fists beside them. “That’s what it comes down to? Three fucking points?”</p><p>“Well, six technically,” Jaskier says with a raised finger, “seeing as the final performance was double weighted and all.” </p><p>Valda looks like she’s about to scratch out her roommate’s eyes.</p><p>Geralt sighs and steps forward before she can enact her wishes; breaking through the crowd of spectators to pry the two of them apart like misbehaved children. “Are you done?”</p><p>Jaskier is beaming. Valda is scowling. Geralt fights a smile of his own as he lowers the two of them to the ground, a warning hand on both of their chests. He notes that Jaskier’s chest is not bound, as he had expected it to be; perhaps whatever bindings Jaskier had used on stage were disposed of after the performance. Geralt shakes his head and attempts to focus. Now was not the time to be thinking about Jaskier’s <em>breasts</em>. </p><p>“Geralt,” Jaskier greets cheerily, as they casually wipe the dirt from their doublet with a brisk hand. “Nice to see you again. Please excuse our dear Valdoria, she’s currently deep in the throes of jealousy –” </p><p>Valda sneers. “Careful, Jas, or I’ll be throwing <em>you –</em>” </p><p>Valda attempts to surge forward and he gently dissuades her with a little nudge of his palm. It takes him another five minutes to pry them far enough apart to take Jaskier to the busy bar and a further five to buy them a victor’s drink.</p><p>-</p><p>“Not that I don’t appreciate the heroic rescue from my tormentor – and the drink, thanks by the way –” Jaskier says belatedly, having already drunk a good half of it, “but, uh...” They down the rest of the drink and ask, “Why, uh… Why are you here – in Oxenfurt – exactly?” </p><p><em>For you. </em>“Needed my armour tended to.”</p><p>“Huh,” Jaskier says, their voice dulled as they nod contemplatively. “So it’s not…?” Jaskier’s eyes dart around them. The marquee is loud and stinks of ale. He wants to take Jaskier somewhere quiet and kiss the taste from their lips instead. </p><p>“What?” he grunts. </p><p>“Not, uh…” Jaskier taps the empty glass on the bar before turning to face Geralt fully. The usual spark is missing from their eyes and Geralt finds that the absence unsettles him, especially when accompanied with slumped shoulders and a sour scent of anxiety. “It’s okay. I get it,” they say with a dismissive shrug. “I’m not the person you first met. I’ve changed. A lot. And I know we’re not…” their hand waves around, searching for the word, “we’re not anything, so I get it, but you turn up at my performance, you get me alone, you buy me a drink...” their eyes begin to skitter away, “and I have to wonder…” </p><p>“Yes,” Geralt says, and Jaskier’s eyes snap back to his. None of that was a question. None of that necessitated an answer, yet it’s the only word he has. “Yes.”</p><p>But it must work because Jaskier keeps eye contact and a slow, cocky, smile spreads over their lips. “You should stay for dinner.”</p><p>Geralt raises an eyebrow; skeptical. This was not what he expected. He expected to be dragged into a storage room for a quick fuck, or perhaps, given Jaskier’s pressing celebrations, merely an agreement to reconvene later in the evening. A dinner… a dinner is something else. </p><p>“It’s free,” Jaskier justifies, tapping the empty tankard on the bar; the unconscious act betraying their nerves. “A, uh, graduation banquet. We’re allowed guests. You should… be my guest.” Their eyes dart away, as if realising how that sounds. Geralt is a Witcher. They both know that courting is an impossibility. Jaskier clears their throat and taps the tankard again, to the same rhythm as the distant drinking song being played by the performers. “The Faculty always provides far too much food at these functions. I wouldn’t want it to go to waste. Rumour has it, there’s even a bottle or two on the house. So, will you? Come with me?”</p><p>Geralt huffs a laugh and contemplates the absurd (and likely unwise) offer – Jackson needs another day to see to his armour, Roach is stabled, his belongings are safely stowed away, and there’s no pressing contracts to undertake… so, yes, he supposes, he can stay. There is nothing stopping him from engaging in this little fantasy except for the futile instinct to protect his fragile heart. He levers himself away from the bar and reaches for Jaskier’s hand, locking eyes and brushing a kiss over the back of the hand, just to see the way Jaskier’s eyes widen and their face flushes a pleasant shade of red. “It would be my honour,” he says, and for the first time speaking to a noble, finds that he actually means it. </p><p>*</p><p>Despite the offer, Jaskier hadn’t actually expected Geralt to stay. They’re not quite sure what to make of the fact that Geralt willingly submits himself to a night in their company. Jaskier knows a romance between them is impossible. Witchers don’t <em>date</em> and if they did, Geralt would have a whole Continent to choose from but… well, for one evening, it was nice to pretend.</p><p>Geralt seems to be of the same mind. He kisses their hand and stays close by Jaskier’s side the whole night through. Geralt may still think of them as a woman – and may only desire them as such – but Jaskier pushes that thought aside and plays into the fantasy that Geralt may actually be attracted to something more.  </p><p>The banquet is held in the same marquee not an hour after the last student has performed. The tables are lined with students and their parents and members of the faculty, and they have to sit through a handful of boring speeches and prize-givings and things, during which Jaskier is certain Geralt will leave in protest. He doesn’t though – he looks grumpy, and miserable, and just as bored as Jaskier, but he doesn’t <em>leave</em> – and then the food and wine is brought out and to Jaskier’s joy, doesn’t stop coming. The formal dinner is accompanied with music from recent bardic alumni and a feeling of celebration fills the air. Jaskier teases Valda, and discusses their work with the Professors, and makes small talk with the faculty, and – as frequently as they can get away with – flirts with Geralt.</p><p>Geralt doesn’t exactly <em>encourage</em> the flirtatious behaviour but he doesn’t dissuade it either. He accepts compliments with a wry smile, and lingering hands with a slight blush. It’s surprising how shy he is in a social setting, or perhaps just on the receiving end of Jaskier’s attentions, compared to how confident he was discussing beasts or railing Jaskier within an inch of their life. It’s a surprising dichotomy, but also a very intriguing one. </p><p>The biggest surprise comes during the height of the banquet, when Geralt has eaten his fill (an entire roast chicken, and more besides) and everyone is merry and sated. Geralt is making idle conversation with Sebastain Vatis, a poetry postgraduate, about the desserts on offer and says – “I don’t know, you’ll have to ask them,” – ‘them’ meaning <em>Jaskier</em>.</p><p>Jaskier chokes on their mead. Geralt abandons the conversation to place a palm on Jaskier’s back which really does not help the situation in the <em>slightest</em>. Jaskier recovers, eyes watering, and is warmed when Geralt doesn’t immediately retract his hand. </p><p>“You okay?” he asks with a frown, genuinely concerned that an errant sip of mead might suffocate a person who has deep throated half of the bardic faculty. </p><p>“Uh,” Jaskier says, attempting to find the words to illustrate their distress. “You said… when you were talking about me, you said ‘them.’”</p><p>Geralt frowns, likely trying to recall the conversation, and then he looks so filled with guilt that Jaskier’s heart <em>aches</em>. “Is that not the right…? I heard others… and I thought –”</p><p>“No!” Jaskier blurts, in a hurry to reassure him. “It is. It’s right. Thank you. It’s just… we haven’t discussed the whole...” their hand flails chaotically in front of them in an attempt to describe the complicated mess inside them, “gender… thing.”</p><p>Geralt shrugs and takes a sip of his own mead, his hand finally slipping from their back in the process. “No, we haven’t,” he agrees, warily examining the crowd over the rim of his tankard. “Did you want to?”</p><p>Jaskier suddenly wishes they had more to drink. Geralt recognises what this is and doesn’t <em>mind</em>. Jaskier cannot adequately handle this knowledge sober, or, quite possibly, ever. “No, I just…” they trail off, uncertain, and then blurts, “Are you queer, Geralt?” </p><p>The exclamation is loud enough to draw attention from the surrounding guests. Jaskier winces. That was clumsy, and wrongly timed, and probably also very rude, but they need to know if Geralt still thinks of them as a woman or if…</p><p>Geralt’s lips twitch as the eyes of the crowd fall upon him, as if he doesn’t mind the question nor the scrutiny one bit. Jaskier supposes, what with his unsavoury reputation, that he has suffered through much more uncomfortable conversations than this. Geralt puts down his drink and when their audience are at least pretending not to listen, addresses Jaskier in a low whisper, “As a general rule, I don’t sleep with people I’m not attracted to.” His eyes stray to Jaskier’s and linger just long enough for a fire to start building in their belly. “I imagine that you don’t either.”</p><p>Jaskier inhales shakily. That’s fair. If Geralt is queer for liking them, then they are queer for liking <em>him</em>... </p><p>Jaskier nods and takes another sip, overwhelmed by the knowledge that Geralt wants to sleep with them, not as a woman, but as they <em>are</em>. “Well, that’s… good,” he says, averting his eyes. “Yes. Very good. Excellent.” They nod again, in a futile attempt to convince themself of this apparent reality, and urgently flags down a server, “More mead please, my good sir!”</p><p>The amused twitch of lips they witness out the corner of their eye fills them with a warmth that runs much deeper than any mead. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28571343">a deleted scene from this chapter</a>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It doesn’t escape Geralt’s notice that nearly every other student has their parents accompanying them to the banquet. Even Valda is sandwiched between two stern-looking nobles and a brat of a boy that Geralt assumes is her brother. Jaskier… has no one. If Jaskier had not spontaneously invited Geralt to this feast then they would likely be sitting here alone. That fact alone is enough to entice Geralt to stay through the academic proceedings, however dull they may be.</p><p>When Jaskier accepts the award for the most accomplished student in their class, Geralt doesn’t miss the way their nose crinkles in disgust at the name ‘Julia’ nor the begrudging manner with which the Music Professor hands over the award. Jaskier seems unphased by both the unenthusiastic reception and the award itself as they return to the table and place the plaque directly in Valda’s eyeline (her menacing glare and Jaskier’s responding smug smile perhaps the only benefit of the engraved plaque). He wants to ask why Jaskier seemingly lacks the familial support that these other scholars boast, but cannot think of an acceptable way to do so. </p><p>Instead, Geralt drinks and eats and enjoys Jaskier’s flirtations. The praise is unearned but as part of the fantasy, Geralt allows himself to pretend that someone as handsome as Jaskier could find him as attractive as they claim. It’s an unusual pleasure to have someone play with his hair and tug at his sleeve and flutter their eyelashes at him. In general, it’s much easier being in Jaskier’s company than he would have thought, and many conversations pass through them from the merits of certain food, to the rumour of southern disputes, to the preferred metre for a particular folk song (Geralt did not have an opinion in this matter, but it was entertaining to watch Jaskier verbally spar with the underprepared poet beside them).</p><p>Night has fallen and the food is being cleared away when the nearby poet, Sebastian, offers a game of gwent. Geralt has begun to accept the kind offer for a spare deck of cards when he remembers that, for once, his time is not his own. He had vowed to keep Jaskier company for the night and his intentions have not wavered. Geralt glances beside him to gauge Jaskier’s reaction but his friend is already frowning across the table, likely attempting to parse the conversation between Valda’s parents. Geralt can hear it. It’s not pleasant. </p><p>Geralt indicates the borrowed deck with a raised eyebrow and Jaskier nods distractedly, “Yeah, go ahead,” they say, just as Valda stands up between her parents with red-rimmed eyes, “I ought see to –” </p><p>“I understand,” he says, as Jaskier gets to their feet. “You’ll return?”</p><p>Jaskier smiles, as if Geralt’s words are unexpected. “Of course,” they say softly, before squeezing his shoulder in farewell and chasing after their tearful friend. </p><p>“Huh,” Sebastian says as Jaskier disappears and Geralt turns back to him, “I didn’t realise those two were so well acquainted.”</p><p>Geralt frowns. He is familiar enough with academics to know that ‘well acquainted’ translates to ‘bed partners’. He’s fairly certain Jaskier would have mentioned if things had progressed with Valda in his absence. He hopes so, anyway. “They’re friends,” he states and then recalls that he had nearly seen Valda gouge out Jaskier’s eyes earlier that evening. “And perhaps also enemies. I don’t pretend to understand.” </p><p>Sebastian huffs a laugh in understanding. “Ah, academic rivals,” he surmises as he shuffles his own deck. “Say no more.”</p><p>*</p><p>“Fuck off, Jaskier. I don’t want to see you right now –” </p><p>“Valda –” they urge, chasing after her as she runs out of the marquee and into the humid night.</p><p>“I mean it, Jas,” she cries, spinning on her heel and facing them fully. Her eyes are watery. Her nose is running. Her cheeks are rubbed red from the callous manner with which she has been wiping her tears. </p><p>“What the fuck did they say this time?” Jaskier asks, grabbing Valda by the sleeve of her dress and urging her into the shadows of the marque, the two of them nestled between tent pegs like the empty barrels of ale that litter the place. </p><p>Despite Valda’s earlier declarations, she goes easily, and they’re barely out of sight before she buries her face in Jaskier’s shoulder and her body starts to shake with repressed tears.</p><p>“Oh,” Jaskier says, caught off-guard by the sudden display of emotion. They wrap their arms around her and pull her into a hug as her tears begin to soak their open doublet. “Hey, it’s okay,” they attempt to soothe, petting her hair and hoping it doesn’t disrupt her elaborate braids too much. “Whatever those fuckers said, you know it’s bullshit. You deserve to be here.”</p><p>She shakes her head and begins to protest but Jaskier won’t hear any of it, shushing her and rocking her in their arms. </p><p>“You <em>do</em>,” they insist. “If that prize was for poetry, we both know you’d wipe the floor with me. I had the audacity to rhyme ‘won’ with ‘son’ if you remember –” and Valda’s sniffles turn to laughter at the memory of Professor Turnikin’s outrage – “so don’t let them say shit about your talents. Quite frankly, I’m offended. I thought I was the only one allowed to talk shit about you.”</p><p>Valda laughs and her tears slow as they hold each other close in the shadows. “Your Witcher is here again,” she observes in a whisper. “Is he here to see you?”</p><p>Jaskier inhales sharply at the unexpected turn of conversation. Geralt said he was in Oxenfurt to have his armour repaired, but his actions and words since then have caused a flicker of hope to stir within them. “Yeah,” Jaskier says, averting their eyes and clearing their throat. “I think he might be.”</p><p>Valda pulls back enough to narrow her eyes at them. “Does he… <em>know</em>?”</p><p>“I didn’t give him an extensive break down of my clandestine activities these last few months if that’s what you’re asking –”</p><p>Valda swats their arm and Jaskier yelps. “<em>Ow</em>,” they complain petulantly, rubbing their arm for effect, even though Valda’s weak attempts at injury will not so much as bruise. </p><p>“You know what I meant,” Valda urges. “Does he know you’re no longer… <em>you know</em>.”</p><p>
  <em>A girl.</em>
</p><p>Jaskier flushes, remembering the ease with which Geralt had changed pronouns for them, and the awkward conversation afterwards about desire. “Yeah,” they whisper, “I’m pretty sure he knows.”</p><p>Valda looks up at them with a crooked smile that should not be anywhere near as pretty as it actually is. “You should take him to the Rosebud with you –”</p><p>“You think?” Jaskier asks hesitantly. Sure, before Geralt arrived, they had planned to get thoroughly pissed at the Rosebud (considering that Drag Night happened to coincide with their final performance) but then <em>Geralt</em> arrived, and those plans had been readily abandoned. </p><p>Valda shrugs. “You can make sure he’s actually okay with it and not just…”</p><p>“Yeah,” Jaskier says, catching her drift. Maybe it wasn’t the worst plan. It would be good to see just how open-minded Geralt was before they went any further down this road. (<em>Not that there was a road to go down</em>, Jaskier reminded themself sternly). If it was a disaster, they could always just get blind drunk, fuck, and never see each other again. Jaskier nods. “Yeah, I could do that.”</p><p>“You’ll be careful?” Valda asks with a scrutinous frown.</p><p>Jaskier is halfway through rolling their eyes when a familiar figure approaches in the shadows. Tall. Lanky. Scraggly beard. Smelling of soil and semen. Professor Ocimus, Head of Botany. Or, as Jaskier has gotten to know him recently: <em>Thomas</em>. “Speaking of which…” they murmur. </p><p>Valda jumps in surprise as Thomas makes himself known. She looks pleased by his intrusion but doesn’t get to vocalise her feelings on the matter either way as he takes her lips forcefully between her own and pushes her back against the tensed fabric of the tent. Jaskier grinds their teeth. They don’t like <em>Thomas</em>. He is married, for starters – his wife most likely among the attendees – and Jaskier knows for a fact that Valda isn’t the only student he takes to bed. Then there’s the atrocious fact that the man seemingly only knows two sexual positions and even Valda deserves a more adventurous lover than that. All of this would be inconsequential if Valda actually liked the fellow but as far as Jaskier can gather Valda’s interest lies only in his larger-than-average penis and the thrill of bedding a professor. They also suspect, with growing, uneasy, suspicion, that Valda has her eye on becoming his next wife – Thomas is a nobleman of some standing, has a steady stream of income, and would likely not forbid her attending bardic festivals – it is a combination that is hard to come by. Love doesn’t seem to factor into it though, and call Jaskier a romantic, but they can never imagine marrying for any other reason.</p><p>Thomas breaks away with a grunt and scowls at Jaskier. “You still here, queer?”</p><p>Jaskier glares back. They know Thomas mistakes their protectiveness over Valda as something more than friendship. Quite frankly, he can believe whatever the fuck he wants if he stops treating Valda like shit. They cast their eye back to Valda to ensure that she’s happy to be left with the man. She looks flustered, caught between their argument like this, but nods her head minutely in confirmation. Fine. At least if Valda’s being bent over his desk (again) then they can invite Geralt back to their rooms undisturbed. </p><p>Geralt. Right. The bizarre notion that there is someone actually waiting for them – someone who actually wants to spend time with them – strikes again, and Jaskier leaves the unlikely lovers to it. </p><p>*</p><p>Sebastian is either a terrible gwent player, or is too afraid to trump a Witcher, as Geralt wins all three of the games they play. Jaskier returns sometime during their last round. </p><p>“Valda okay?” he asks, his eyes flickering from his hand just briefly enough to assess Jaskier. They smell like salt – tears, most likely – but nothing else has changed about their appearance.</p><p>Jaskier shrugs and drinks the dregs from a nearby tankard. The drink doesn’t belong to either of them but it doesn’t look like Jaskier much cares. “Nothing a certain piece of furniture won’t fix,” they mutter darkly. Geralt frowns but doesn’t have time to ask clarifying questions as with the next card, he has defeated the poet once again. </p><p>Sebastian groans in defeat and throws down his cards as Geralt collects his earnings. Thirty crowns. Good. Perhaps he can ask Jackson to strengthen Roach’s reins. Sebastian woefully collects his cards and departs with his tail between his legs. Geralt notes that the marquee is emptying, presumably folk retiring for the night, or moving onto more raucous celebrations elsewhere. </p><p>“Rumour has it,” Jaskier says, as they straddle the bench where Sebastian had been, “that he’s married to a man.”</p><p>“Hmm?” Geralt asks, distracted by pocketing his earnings.</p><p>“Sebastian,” Jaskier clarifies, searching for another abandoned tankard and drinking that one too. “Heard he lives on the North Isle with a sailor named Idzi.”</p><p>Geralt grunts, unsure how he’s meant to respond to such trivial matters. All he knows about the fellow is that he relies too heavily on weather cards. </p><p>“I have a proposition,” Jaskier says, in a tone serious enough that Geralt moves to face them, their knees brushing as they both straddle the bench. “Valda is… engaged, let’s say – for the night – meaning we could retire now,” they say, pausing to allow the implication to sink in. Jaskier licks their lips and Geralt follows every movement, captivated. “Or…” Geralt’s eyes snap to theirs, wondering what suggestion could be any more enticing than that to join Jaskier in bed. “The night is still young,” they say, and their eyes dart around the emptying hall for observers, before they start trailing their hand brazenly up Geralt’s thigh towards... “and there is somewhere I would quite like to take you. Some people I’d like you to meet. Entertainment. Drink. Likely the opportunity to see me in significantly less clothing if you were so inclined…” their hand brushes against his crotch before falling maddeningly to the wayside.</p><p>When Geralt looks across at them, Jaskier is smiling coyly, as if they know exactly what their flirtation has done to him. Geralt nods, wordlessly. He’s intrigued. He’s always so fucking intrigued. </p><p>Jaskier’s smile widens and their eyes sparkle with joy and Geralt is overtaken with the insatiable need to kiss them. He does. It’s teasing, and light, and full of promise. And then Jaskier is tugging on his hand and leading him to the Rosebud. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>a lot of you theorised that Sebastian let Geralt win to be kind, and so <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27133826">here is a one shot</a> set a few years later that confirms this theory</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this chapter features the drinking song that Jaskier performed at the festival! you can read the lyrics &amp; listen to it <a href="https://vands38.tumblr.com/post/620351669053554688/from-the-fic-return-to-oxenfurt-by-vands88-the">here</a></p><p>there is also another deleted Professor Gascoigne scene <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28571343">here</a></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jaskier steels their courage as the two of them approach the Rosebud. This had seemed like a good idea when Valda had first suggested it – a way to test Geralt’s open-mindedness without Jaskier risking their own self-esteem – but now the prospect of bringing Geralt to Drag Night seems as ludicrous as it is terrifying. Geralt must be nearly a hundred years old; he surely knows these things exist, but there’s a difference between academic knowledge and, well, <em>experiencing</em> these things. He’ll take one look inside, realise the sort of people he’s associating with, and make his excuses to leave. </p><p>“You know,” Jaskier says, slowing their pace, “On second thoughts, it really does seem a tragedy to let an empty dormitory go to waste –”</p><p>“Geralt of Rivia!” a voice booms from the doorway of the Rosebud.</p><p>Jaskier halts their tracks and watches in astonishment as Geralt’s furrowed brow breaks into puzzlement and then into laugh lines. “Dee,” he greets with a rare smile, running over to clasp the arm of Mother Licious. “Good to see you again.”</p><p>Jaskier is momentarily speechless as the two of them converse on the steps to the Rosebud. Geralt knows the most prominent Drag Queen in Redania. By name. If Geralt was capable of ‘chatting’, he would be engaging in the very act right now, asking about the House of Licious as if he is actually acquainted with her family. Jaskier shakes their head and jogs to catch up just as Mother Licious is asking what brings him to her ‘den of iniquity’ and Geralt huffs a laugh as if, heavens above, this is not his first visitation.</p><p>It doesn’t help that the ever-beautiful Mother Licious is dressed so divinely tonight; her velvet red dress is daringly low-cut and it’s matched in colour by her beautiful heels and painted lips. Under the warm glow of the lantern, her dark skin is rendered ethereal, glowing like the goddess she is. </p><p>Jaskier has never felt more inadequate in their life as they come to stand beside these two god-like specimens. “Uh, hello.”</p><p>“Oh, if it isn’t our little <em>Dandelion</em>,” Mother greets with her usual tone of condescension. “How lovely to see you again. Congratulations on your festival performance, I hear it was quite the show –” </p><p>“Thank you –”</p><p>“Not performing for us tonight though, I take it?” she asks, her eyes roving over Jaskier’s clothes, no doubt noting the masculine dress but sans certain bindings and stuffings that would usually accompany his performances here – because when Jaskier is performing here, they are most definitely a ‘he’.</p><p>Mortified, Jaskier shakes their head, just as Geralt turns to look at them with a frown. “Dandelion?” he enquires, curious but not unkind. </p><p>Jaskier feels themself flush beetroot red. Geralt may have accepted that Jaskier crosses certain lines but he certainly doesn’t need to know that Jaskier performs here as an act in their own right, and often enough that even the great Mother Licious knows their stage name – </p><p>“A childish attempt at innuendo, I believe,” Mother drawls. “I tried to steer our little Dandelion in another direction, but what can I say?” she asks, sipping her wine. “Poets do what poets do.”</p><p>Geralt turns back to Jaskier; his lips slanted in amusement and his eyebrow raised in a silent request for an explanation.</p><p>Jaskier sighs, averts their eyes, and explains – “Dandy. Lion. I’m a dandy –” Jaskier says, sweeping their hand in an explanatory wave over their foppish attire, “but with a fearsome streak like…”  </p><p>“A lion,” Geralt finishes lamely. He turns back to Mother Licious with a frown. “Yes, I’ve heard better,” he agrees in a monotone. Then, miraculously, the corner of his lips twitch and he looks across at Jaskier fondly. “Dandelions are stubborn weeds. Like jaskiers. I believe they’re rather resilient.” </p><p>Jaskier is flustered into silence at the reference back to their first meeting and the inadvertent (or not so inadvertent?) compliment. Jaskier watches, flabbergasted, as Geralt’s eyes sparkle with amusement. <em>Fuck</em>. Jaskier’s in love. Utterly in love. With a fucking <em>Witcher</em>. </p><p>Geralt and Mother Licious continue trading barbs but Jaskier has ceased listening, too overjoyed with the fact that Geralt is, apparently, perfectly accepting of their pastimes and also, apparently, capable of <em>flirting</em>. </p><p>*</p><p>It’s been a while since Geralt’s seen Dee and even longer since he’s graced the Rosebud on Drag Night but he’s pleased to see it’s still a popular night and that here, at long last, Jaskier seems to have friends. It is also – given Jaskier’s recent gender exploration and predisposition for performance – unsurprising that they are an act here in their own right. Despite his ribbing with Dee, Dandelion really is quite a sweet name, and really rather befitting of his friend. Certainly more patrons here refer to Jaskier as ‘Dandelion’ than anything else. It’s a strange locale, and not where Geralt expected to be at midnight when he arrived in Oxenfurt at dawn, but he’s honoured that Jaskier feels comfortable bringing him here. </p><p>Geralt may have skirted around the discussion earlier, uncomfortable with eavesdroppers as he was, but Geralt <em>is</em> queer and would likely still find Jaskier attractive even if they took to being Dandelion off-stage. He doesn’t even know if Jaskier is entertaining such things – if it’s even what they want – but he hopes that his presence here will reassure Jaskier that he has no qualms with their exploration, whatever the conclusion. </p><p>The small hall is packed but they manage to find a table to place their drinks and two stools crammed beside it. It’s not long before the stuffy heat climbs and Jaskier, as they had promised, starts to lose layers. After one drink, the doublet is splayed open, and after another, the laces of their blouse become so loose that Geralt can glimpse at the curves of the mounds beneath. Geralt feels a prickling heat of his own, and doesn’t know whether to blame it on the increasingly raunchy performances on stage, or the insufferable heat of dozens of bodies breathing the same air. Jaskier drinks their mead, their throat bobbing, and their fingers flexing, and then they lick a stray drop from their lips… Fuck. Geralt pulls at his collar, opening his black shirt as far as it will go. Perhaps the heat stems from something else altogether.  </p><p>Jaskier catches his eye and that damn mischievous smile makes an appearance again. Jaskier licks their lips and is probably about to say something that would cause Geralt to do something terribly indecent when they are saved by the sound of Jaskier’s name from the stage – </p><p>“– Dandelion’s composition.”</p><p>Cheers erupt around them and a couple of nearby patrons playfully nudge Jaskier.</p><p>“I know, I know,” the performer is saying, in a high-pitched voice with thick hair poking out between fishnet tights and… Geralt is fairly certain they were wearing a corset earlier, but now there is no more than a hairy chest and smudged lipstick. Geralt has clearly not watched the stage in some time. “Another one, but this time our Dandelion’s here to enjoy it! And I promise it’s one you all know… with amended lyrics, of course,” they say with a wink to the crowd. “I expect you all to join in.”</p><p>Geralt looks across at Jaskier, hoping for an explanation, but only receives a shrug in response. Jaskier must be just as clueless. The band strike a familiar chord and the performer begins to stride across the stage, calling out Mother Licious for her sins, and when Jaskier claps their hands in joy and laughs, Geralt finally recognises the song. The performer has taken Jaskier’s drinking song from earlier that day and crafted lyrics to mock popular drag acts. As requested, when it’s time for the resounding chorus of “let’s have another round”, the patrons join in and raise their glasses and stomp their feet in time to the music. Jaskier looks delighted, and Geralt spends the entire song waiting for the performer to turn their clever insults to ‘Dandelion’. They don’t though, and Jaskier doesn’t look surprised or offended by the oversight; they seem overjoyed just to have their music adopted by this crowd. </p><p>Geralt frowns into his drink, a pessimistic thought nagging at him, but then Jaskier is smiling at him, and brushing their hands together, and it is easy to push the thought aside.</p><p>-</p><p>They stay in the Rosebud until the early morning and are stumbling through the streets back to Jaskier’s dormitory when Jaskier unknowingly gives Geralt the opening he had been looking for all night – “How do you know Mother Licious anyway?”</p><p>“Contract,” Geralt grunts. “Few years ago.” He glances at his companion, the bard skipping drunkenly and looking to the stars with a wistful smile. Beautiful. Unattainable. “What about you?”</p><p>Jaskier’s steps falter. Their smile falls. They shrug and look out across the docks where the moonlight reflects in the rippling water of the Pontar. “Around,” they say, uncharacteristically diffident. </p><p>Geralt thins his lips as he contemplates how to pry more details out of his oddly taciturn companion. “You are not… in her house?” He is fairly certain that is the right terminology. The elder acts tend to adopt the younger ones, especially if they are homeless, as young queer folk tend to be in Redania. They become a family of sorts, and tend to perform and compete together. He’s given to understand that it’s something of a right of passage in these communities. </p><p>Jaskier shrugs again, still avoiding his gaze, in a manner that Geralt is beginning to recognise as shame. “I’m not in any house.” </p><p>Geralt grunts as he hears his suspicions confirmed. These fellows may be acquaintances, but they are not friends – are not <em>family</em>. The thought brings a sour taste to his mouth. Jaskier deserves to have a family. They deserve to be <em>loved</em>. Geralt had hoped the Rosebud would provide that for them but in retrospect, the patrons seem more taken with Jaskier’s <em>music</em>, and the persona of Dandelion, than Jaskier themself. </p><p>Jaskier is still looking out towards the river, a faint blush born from alcohol on their cheeks and their feet dragging in a way that seems born from melancholy rather than intoxication. They are oddly subdued and Geralt realises, with guilt, that it was likely his clumsy questioning that dampened Jaskier’s exuberance. <em>Fuck</em>.</p><p>Geralt doesn’t know what to say to make it better. He has never been apt at expressing himself verbally. He wants to say something like ‘I had a nice time’ or ‘I like you for <em>you</em>’ and ‘you deserve to belong’ but lacks the skill to express any of these sentiments in a manner that isn’t entirely trite. He looks sidelong at Jaskier, contemplating, and the next time he looks, reaches out to lace their fingers together.</p><p>He hears Jaskier’s breath hitch, their heart pound, and their temperature soar, and attempts to focus on these physiological responses and not the way that his own fingers tingle at the unusual sensation of another hand in his, fingertips tentatively brushing over the palm of his hand…</p><p>He sneaks another look, sees a soft smile on Jaskier’s face, and exhales in relief that for once, words are seemingly unnecessary. </p>
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<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this chapter features the song 'Amber Eyes' that Jaskier performed at the bardic festival. you can read the lyrics and listen to the song <a href="https://vands38.tumblr.com/post/620613987763191808/from-the-fic-return-to-oxenfurt-by-vands88-the">here</a>. </p><p>warning: the sexual encounter in this chapter takes place under the influence of alcohol. jaskier also has a rather cisnormative view of anatomy, which some readers might find jarring.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jaskier must be drunk. They <em>must</em> be. In order to ask Geralt to <em>dance</em>.</p><p>Jaskier has just pushed open the window of their dormitory to relieve the humidity of the warm summer’s night when the distant music from the Bardic Faculty party floats through the air and into the quiet room. It’s a slow, melodic love song played on a lyre and Jaskier is merry enough to dismiss the sloppy technique and focus on the melody instead. It’s pretty. Like Geralt is pretty.</p><p>Geralt is closing the door behind him. Jaskier leans against the window frame and grins, enjoying both the view and the cool breeze alike.</p><p>Geralt frowns. “What?”</p><p>Jaskier widens their grin. Geralt looks so <em>cute</em> when he’s grumpy. “I just realised that I took you to a dance hall and didn’t ask you to dance.”</p><p>Geralt scowls and averts his eyes. “Uh. I don’t really, uh…”</p><p>Right. Jaskier supposes that dancing isn’t included in the standard Witcher training. Before they can overthink it, Jaskier pushes themself off the wall and holds out a hand. “Then I’ll lead,” they declare, circumventing Geralt’s hesitance and pulling him into their embrace. It’s a close position, a lot closer than traditional dances would have them, but from what Jaskier’s seen at the Rosebud, it’s more foreplay than a formalised dance anyway.</p><p>It’s not until Jaskier has Geralt in their arms – arranging the legendary Witcher into the <em>feminine</em> role – that they realise how absurd this is. Jaskier flushes and starts to untangle their arms with apologies on their lips but before they can pull away, Geralt is urging them back into place.</p><p>“It’s fine,” he grunts, but there’s still a weird sort of tension between them until Geralt fondly butts his head against Jaskier’s. “Show me your moves,” he says with a teasing smile.</p><p>Jaskier snorts – they’re not entirely sure if that was Geralt joking or flirting, but either way it was entirely endearing – and pulls him close again. He smells <em>good</em>. Like... <em>manly</em>. Fuck. All cogniscent thoughts have apparently left the fucking building for the night.</p><p>Jaskier actually attempts a dance, stepping and leading in time to the music, and Geralt, miraculously, follows. It’s not as terrible as perhaps it could be, but it could undoubtedly be a damn sight more courtly if Jaskier was not focusing on his warmth, and his scent, and the five o’clock shadow brushing against their cheek, and the peculiar sensation of very muscular arms around their neck, and the hot press of intertwined bodies getting ever closer…</p><p>They lock eyes and the sight of molten gold makes their breath catch. “They really are amber,” Jaskier mumbles, love-stricken, as they fall into the depths of them, just like the foolish maiden in the song. Jaskier had fought Professor Dusza for that phrase – <em>“you exaggerate,” the professor had bemoaned, “no eyes are truly that colour”</em> – well, fuck you, Professor Dusza. Here is the proof, here and now. The most beautiful eyes that Jaskier has ever seen, the ones that haunted their dreams for months… a beauty that was impossible to capture adequately in song, but that Jaskier had attempted nonetheless.</p><p>Geralt frowns in confusion but doesn’t look away, then the furrow of his brow smooths and his hand moves from Jaskier’s neck down their side. Jaskier shivers under the touch, and then their feet are slowing, and their foreheads are brushing, and…</p><p>Jaskier doesn’t know who initiates the kiss, but their lips are locked, and their bodies cease dancing, and after countless hours of flirtation – in which Geralt has been courteous and kind and an untouchable <em>marvel</em> – Jaskier finally gets to <em>touch</em>.</p><p>*</p><p>Jaskier never ceases to take Geralt by surprise. The bard is unpredictable, and Geralt would be lying if he said that wasn’t part of the appeal.</p><p>Geralt allows himself to be led, and then kissed, and then pushed back against a wall. There’s a warm buzz thrumming beneath his skin at Jaskier touching him so confidently, a little thrill he can feel through the dampening of the mutagens, at the rarity of the experience. His bed partners usually expect him to be dominant and are usually too afraid to even hazard otherwise. Jaskier doesn’t hesitate though. Jaskier claws and clutches and pulls at Geralt like they genuinely can’t help themself.</p><p>Geralt is just as eager to get his hands on Jaskier as they clumsily strip boots and shirts and whatever else they can as Jaskier walks them back to the wall of their dormitory.</p><p>He missed this. <em>Fuck</em>, he missed this so much. He missed their taste and their smell and the softness of their hair. He missed the way Jaskier chuckles between kisses and the feeling of their nimble and calloused fingers against his chest.</p><p>He’s fallen for the bard. He knows he has. The fantasy of a relationship they played out tonight was an impossibility in reality but under the guise of this drunken night, they can still pretend. He can hold them like a lover. He can kiss Jaskier like they’re <em>his</em>.</p><p>*</p><p>Geralt kisses back just as passionately. He seems even more starved for affection than the last time they fucked; his hands grasping and his lips searching, and these strangled little grunts falling from his lips every time Jaskier does something unexpected. Jaskier doesn’t know what they’ve done to deserve the Witcher’s attention but is not foolish enough to question it as they walk Geralt backwards to the nearest wall with purposeful intent.</p><p>They know without a doubt what they want this time, probably because it’s been the subject of many-a-fantasy during Geralt’s absence. “Please tell me,” they murmur between messy kisses, “that you found time to bathe after your last hunt?” They ask because Geralt <em>always</em> smells like the Path – like mud and monsters and sweat – and it’s hard to tell if it has any relation to cleanliness.</p><p>“This morning,” Geralt grunts. “Why?”</p><p>Jaskier gives him their best flirtatious smile and falls to their knees, tugging down his breeches and smallclothes as they go. Geralt’s eyes widen with surprise and a strangled groan falls from his lips, head falling back against the wall in anticipatory bliss, as if this is not something that is offered to him daily. Geralt is <em>gorgeous</em>. Surely women (and, after their frank conversation, presumably also <em>not</em>-women) must be falling at his feet every day, but Geralt seems genuinely surprised that someone would want to give this to him.</p><p>Jaskier has wanted to pleasure him like this from the moment they first laid eyes on him. They can barely hold in their lustful groan at the sight of Geralt’s swelling manhood before them.</p><p>Jaskier takes a moment just to close their eyes and breathe in the heady scent. Jaskier <em>loves</em> this act; they love the feeling and taste of cock on their tongue, the intimacy of it, the way the act renders their bed partners incoherent… but they also love the simplicity of it. There is a reason why this is the only sexual act Jaskier offers to strangers without fear. The pleasure is entirely within their control. Nothing is expected in return. There is no need for bed partners to <em>touch</em> them. Jaskier can enjoy the simple pleasure of a man spilling down their throat and enjoy hearing their name gasped out in return.</p><p>They moan at the first taste of him, at the stretch of their lips, and the hot and heavy member on their tongue. The first swirl of tongue around the head confirms that Geralt tastes just as good as they’d always imagined. Better, even. <em>Fuck</em>.</p><p>Jaskier’s eyes close in pleasure as they give into the sensation. Tears of joy prick their eyes, and it’s so fucking embarassing but they can’t keep them at bay. Jaskier has wanted this for so long and now that they have it, they’re simply overwhelmed. They thought they’d missed their opportunity to do this – didn’t think Geralt would ever return; didn’t think he’d want them as they are – but he did, and he <em>does</em>; there is no denying it after the night spent in his company. There is also no denying Geralt’s attraction in the swell of his cock, and the shortness of his breath, and the cautious little clutching of fingers in their hair. Gods, it’s perfect. Jaskier wants to stay on their knees forever, giving Geralt the pleasure he deserves.</p><p>“Jaskier,” Geralt whispers brokenly, his thumb brushing a stray tear away so fucking tenderly that it just makes more spill. He looks down at Jaskier with a confused frown, concern lining his eyes, and Jaskier belatedly recalls that Witchers can fucking sense emotions. Geralt will know that these are tears of <em>joy</em>. Jaskier feels a hot flush of shame creep up their spine. But then, Geralt’s hand is moving to cup their head and caress their hair softly, and it’s… okay. It’s okay.</p><p>They slip back into the haze of pleasure, letting the tears fall, and their tongue twist, and worshipping Geralt’s body in the best way they know how.</p><p>Under Jaskier’s ministrations, it’s not long before Geralt comes with a muffled, wordless shout. He looks magnificent as he slumps against the wall in the haze of pleasure. He looks soft like this; approachable, like any other lover would be.</p><p>Afterwards, Jaskier gently tucks him back into his smallclothes and leaves kiss after kiss against his bare thigh, reluctant to leave, and giving time for the last tears to dry. Geralt tugs Jaskier to standing and then he’s kissing the taste of his own seed from their mouth, arms wrapping around their waist in a way that Jaskier almost wants to call <em>possessive</em>. He looks at Jaskier appraisingly and panic begins to crawl under their skin –</p><p>Geralt wants to return the favour. <em>Fuck</em>.</p><p>Most people don’t care enough to do such a thing, but Geralt is kind, and observant, and will no doubt look at Jaskier with that damn pitying frown of his if they deny their need.</p><p>Geralt cups their face and kisses them sweetly – far sweeter than the situation warrants and Jaskier deserves – and then his chest rumbles with sound and he’s asking, low and gravelly, “What can I do? For you?”</p><p>Jaskier swallows and avoids his gaze and Geralt continues to hold them close and they selfishly continue to relish in the touch. There is something Geralt could do, they suppose. The thing that Jaskier does to pleasure themself in the dark of night when Valda is fast asleep.</p><p>Jaskier turns their head and kisses Geralt’s palm before wrapping their hand around his wrist and bringing his hand down to slip beneath their trousers. Jaskier groans at the feel of his rough, calloused, fingers against their clit, and instinctively bucks into the touch. Geralt grunts an understanding against their ear and wastes no time, moving his fingers quick and clever over the sensitive spot. What’s curious, though, is that he doesn’t touch their clitoris like Jaskier does when pleasuring a woman – not circular motions or fast flicks of thumb – he softly pinches the small flesh between his fingers and strokes it like one would with <em>male</em> anatomy.</p><p>Jaskier comes embarrassingly quickly, gasping Geralt’s name, and panting hot and wet into the crook of his neck.</p><p>Geralt gently extracts his hand afterwards, but it doesn’t go far, pressed protectively against Jaskier’s hip, thumb stroking the exposed flesh beneath their open shirt. Jaskier is thankful for the moment’s reprieve because their climax was unexpectedly mindblowing and they need… a moment. They bunch their hand in Geralt’s hair and bring him down into a passionate kiss just to delay the inevitable. They want to stay wrapped in Geralt’s arms forever. They don’t want him to leave.</p><p><em>Stay</em>, Jaskier thinks, as they pour their desperation into the kiss, <em>Please stay</em>.</p><p>*</p><p>Jaskier seems utterly undone by the simple act and Geralt wonders if, perhaps, it has been a long time for them too. Unlikely, considering Jaskier’s charms, but Geralt’s not egotistical enough to think that Jaskier’s pleasure is purely his own doing. He allows them time to recover, caressing the scant few inches of skin he can access, and drawing them in for tender kisses that he relishes all too much.</p><p>He had a pleasant night, all in all, and he’s reluctant to leave. He doesn’t want to think about why Jaskier was crying. He doesn’t want to think about the gentle way that they are kissing. And he definitely wants to have something in his head other than that damn song… <em>Oh, if I asked, would you stay another day?</em></p><p>It must be early morning by now. Geralt has already resigned himself to being in the city for the entirety of the festival. If Jaskier asked this time… he would stay. He knows it’s futile. He knows this fantasy cannot last. But perhaps they can be like the lovers in Jaskier’s song, reuniting every time he returns from the ‘wars’... the notion doesn’t seem quite as puerile as perhaps it used to.</p><p>Jaskier doesn’t ask him in the end – perhaps they fear to – they just tug Geralt in the direction of the bed, and the two of them lie intertwined, falling asleep to the sound of distant love songs.</p>
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<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Geralt wakes at dawn and finds Jaskier dressed in nought but a tunic, splayed across his naked chest with their head pillowed on his shoulder. The soft morning light filters through the window, illuminating the smooth, unmarred skin before him. He absently plays with Jaskier’s chestnut hair, so short now that he can barely hold it in his grasp before it slips through his fingers. His other hand slides beneath Jaskier’s tunic to caress the small of their back...</p>
<p>A few sleepy sighs sound, and then Jaskier shifts and a flailing hand lands across Geralt’s face. “Go back to sleep, you cretin,” Jaskier grunts, words muffled against Geralt’s skin.</p>
<p>He smiles and huffs his amusement into the crop of Jaskier’s hair. It was nice waking up with someone, even if that person didn’t quite agree. He can’t remember the last time it happened, actually. It’s certainly been a good few years since someone stayed until morning.</p>
<p>Geralt nuzzles his nose back into Jaskier’s hair in an attempt to commit the scent to memory. He’s afraid of what will happen when Jaskier wakes. If he was a stronger man, he would leave now and never look back, but he’s curious what will happen if he stays; terrified, certainly, but also undeniably intrigued. </p>
<p>“Get some rest,” he murmurs against Jaskier’s temple, before attempting to untangle their bodies and rise from bed. </p>
<p>A groan of protest sounds and flailing arms attempt to pull him back to bed. Geralt huffs in amusement and deftly avoids Jaskier’s grasping hands as he stands. “I’ll return,” he reassures, “with food, and hopefully something to drown out the stench of ale.” </p>
<p>At this, Jaskier cracks open an eye, sleepily examining the Witcher leaning over them. Belatedly, Geralt realises that Jaskier has actually managed to catch him – their clever fingers wrapped around his wrist. “You’ll return?” they mumble, voice heavy with sleep. </p>
<p>Jaskier sounds sceptical. Geralt rather resents that he has given Jaskier sufficient reason to doubt his sincerity. He is thankful that Jaskier is likely too tired to process the myriad of expressions that no doubt cross his face at the realisation of just how callously he has left them in the past. The first time he didn’t even say goodbye. </p>
<p>Geralt sighs at his own misdeeds and leans forward to brush his lips against their temple in a plea for forgiveness. Jaskier melts into the touch, eyes slipping closed, and obligingly loosens their grip on his wrist. “I’ll return,” Geralt reassures.</p>
<p>“Promise?” Jaskier asks with eyes still closed, already falling back to sleep.</p>
<p>Geralt doesn’t make promises lightly – he doesn’t make them often at all –  but Jaskier is undoubtedly owed this one. Geralt brushes another kiss against their hair, once again breathing in that familiar – <em>intoxicating, comforting</em> – scent, and issues the reassurance that Jaskier had asked of him, “I promise.”</p>
<p>Jaskier’s breaths have already evened out into slumber by the time he makes his vow. Their grasping hand finally falls and then they are turning and nuzzling into the pillow that Geralt had just vacated. He smiles indulgently at the sight, before a particularly cold breeze seeps through the open window and a frown catches his face instead. He doesn’t want Jaskier to get cold. He reaches for the blanket at the foot of the bed and tucks it around his sleeping companion before finally prying himself away and gathering the clothes that have been scattered across the floor. </p>
<p>Geralt perches on the edge of Valda’s bed to pull on his boots as quietly as possible. Valda did not return last night but Jaskier had informed him not to worry until late morning when she would inevitably ‘come back smelling of fucking soil’. Geralt huffs a laugh at the memory and finds his eyes once more on the bard. He tells himself that he is watching Jaskier for signs of waking consciousness, not just watching… to watch. Jaskier is beautiful like this, bathed in the colours of sunrise, and for a moment Geralt strongly considers stripping back down to his smallclothes and returning to bed, tucking his head into their shoulder, and pressing a kiss against their collarbone…</p>
<p>He shakes his head and tears himself away. He will return. He fears he will always return. </p>
<p>-</p>
<p>The deeply ingrained instinct to leave strikes again when the dormitory door closes behind him and he is faced with the unfamiliar halls of Oxenfurt Academy. There are no pitchforks here, but that does not mean the occupants do not have other ways to demonstrate their hatred. His cowardly thoughts whisper that he could take Roach and his armour and <em>run</em>. </p>
<p>He clenches his jaw and steels his resolve. He is no coward, and he had made Jaskier a promise. There are no monsters here. No beasts either. And as terrified as he is by the prospect of spending time with Jaskier, he does <em>want</em> to return. </p>
<p>Geralt closes his eyes and exhales slowly, skimming into a meditative state just enough to ease his anxiety. He finds the garderobe and then makes his way to the bathhouse to give himself a few more minutes to calm his unease, and then dutifully follows his nose to the kitchens. </p>
<p>The cafeteria is nearly as empty as the bathhouse at this early hour. A few sleepy students and faculty members are hunched over the benches, falling asleep into their porridge, but no one gives Geralt any trouble as he fills a pitcher with raspberry juice and piles a wooden plate high with sliced bread and freshly cooked ham. He doesn’t know if he ought to pay, or if he is permitted to take the food from the hall, but no one challenges him and Geralt is relieved when he makes it back to the dormitory with no more than a raised eyebrow. </p>
<p>He closes the door and pries off his boots as quietly as he can. Jaskier snuffles in their sleep and rolls onto their front with an arm spread as if searching for a warm body beside them. An unbidden swell of jealousy churns in his stomach as Geralt wonders just how many nights Jaskier must share their bed for this gesture to become habitual. He pushes the shameful thought aside. He has no claim to the bard. If anything, he ought to be pleased that Jaskier’s bed partners seemingly appreciate them enough to stay for the morning. Jaskier deserves such kindness. </p>
<p>Geralt clears his throat as he slides the plate and pitcher onto the bedside table and Jaskier slowly rises to consciousness. Jaskier mumbles something unintelligible as they struggle to sit up, then yawn and sleepily wipe the residue from their eyes. The tunic rises tantalisingly along their legs as they do so and Geralt finds himself suddenly dry-mouthed. He drags his eyes away and clears his throat again, indicating the food beside him. “Got food.”</p>
<p>Jaskier’s nose twitches, perhaps finally picking up on the delicious smell of fried meat, and opens their eyes with a lustful groan, scrambling for the plate faster than Geralt has perhaps ever seen Jaskier move. Geralt huffs a laugh and pushes the plate towards them, watching with amusement as Jaskier starts tearing into the food without a moment’s hesitation. Geralt moves to sit beside them, leaning against the headboard, their two bodies filling the entire width of the small bed, and leans over to take some for himself as Jaskier practically inhales the rest of the food. Geralt watches, amused by this unusual display, especially from one considered a noble – who, in his experience, pick daintily at their food like they have all the time in the world – but then again, he ought to have learned by now that nothing about Jaskier is in any way predictable. Jaskier had behaved exactly like a noble at the banquet, but now, in the privacy of their own chambers, hungover and sleepy, they eat like a starving man… Unpredictable, in everything. </p>
<p>Jaskier looks across at him with a furrowed brow, a hunk of bread still sticking out their mouth. They yank the excess out their mouth and swallow the rest with difficulty. “Are you watching me eat, you scamp?”</p>
<p>Geralt flusters at being caught out and looks down at his own handful of bread, of which he’s barely eaten more than a morsel. </p>
<p>“I know, I know,” Jaskier is muttering as they take the entire pitcher of juice in their hands and begin messily gulping it down, “I’m a savage beast, but I’m hungover and <em>starving</em> and a handsome man just brought me breakfast in bed. Forgive me for being <em>enthusiastic</em>. I must admit I’m considering forgiving my companion for waking me at the crack of dawn. Especially if he continues sating my every need.” </p>
<p>Geralt smiles secretively into his lap and picks at the bread some more. “And what needs are those?” he says, in an attempt at flirtation, eyes flickering to Jaskier’s face. Their hair is a matted disaster, crumbs and juice stain their chin, their eyes are wild and flickering, and it’s possible that Geralt has never found them more attractive. </p>
<p>“Other than a pressing need to piss?” Jaskier asks with a smirk and another gulp of raspberry juice. Geralt snorts in amusement and wonders how he ever considered this person beside him to be a <em>noblewoman</em> of all things. </p>
<p>“Other than that,” Geralt confirms with a teasing smile.</p>
<p>Jaskier’s lips tick up into a cocky smile and their eyes search his, “Another round, perhaps, if my bedmate is willing –” </p>
<p>Geralt’s heart races at the brazen invitation and attempts to tamper down his eagerness. He is very much willing to indulge in further activities with his captivating companion. He manages to tilt his head in approximation of a nod, afraid to give voice to his desires, but he fears a small smile escapes regardless. </p>
<p>Jaskier’s eyes sparkle with joy and their lips curve even higher in satisfaction. “Excellent,” they say, clasping their hands together in exuberance. “Afterwards, then, I will almost definitely require a kip,” Jaskier says, tossing the plate aside and demonstrating their intention with a stifled yawn. Curiously, it is only after this brazen proposition that Jaskier’s nerves make an appearance: their shoulders hunch, their eyes dart around the room, and their fingers pick distractedly at the blanket. “And then, perhaps, seeing as it is such a beautiful day…” They toss aside the blanket, and shrug as if to offset the importance of whatever it is they are gathering the courage to say. “Well, I suppose I might walk around the city a little... gather a little inspiration, have a little bite for lunch… if you wanted…?” Jaskier clears their throat and finally looks Geralt in the eye with steely resolve. “If you wanted anything from town. Then that would be – we could do that.” </p>
<p>Geralt cannot breathe. An invitation to stay. It is more than he expected. More than he deserves. Something that he desperately wants and will undoubtedly live to regret. He gives a one armed shrug, and swallows his mouthful of breakfast. He will address the practicalities, as Jaskier has, and circumvent the wider meaning. “I need to collect my armour. Gather supplies.”</p>
<p>“Well then,” Jaskier says, stretching their arms and rucking their tunic again in that delightful manner. Jaskier smirks, having caught his straying eyes. “I believe we might start on our plans for the day.” </p>
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<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this chapter is just straight up porn</p><p>a reminder to heed the general warnings for this fic re: dysphoria and vaginal intercourse</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jaskier can scarcely believe that Geralt <em>stayed</em>. There is a spring in their step as they go about their morning routine; an unnatural buoyancy that really ought not to be there considering the copious amounts of alcohol consumed last night. It’s possible that no one has ever felt so <em>magnificent</em> the morning of a hangover – but then again, not many people have a delectable, insatiable, gorgeous Witcher waiting for them in their bed. </p><p>Jaskier wastes no time when they return; slipping into Geralt’s lap with a teasing smile and kissing him deeply. Their kisses last night had been passionate and desperate and embarrassingly sloppy, but this morning, Jaskier can take their time, and for countless minutes that’s all it is – the teasing tips of tongue and nibble of lips – enough to send anticipatory tingles of excitement skittering across Jaskier’s skin. Geralt holds them tightly, strong arms around their waist, and it’s easy to fall into the intimacy of it and pretend they are lovers in the true sense of the word. Geralt still tastes like mint paste and raspberry juice – home comforts amongst the gritty scent of the Path – and the combination is dangerously addictive. </p><p>Jaskier feels the growing swell of Geralt’s clothed erection against their naked folds and bucks into the sensation before they can help themselves. They break the kiss, an apology halfway out their mouth, when a groan sounds against their lips and they realise, with delight, that their advances had not been untoward at all. Jaskier’s apology turns into a sultry smile as they trail their lips across Geralt’s cheek, enjoying the prickling sensation of five o’clock shadow against their sensitive lips. </p><p><em>Another round</em>, Jaskier had proposed earlier, and it seems like their bedmate is very, <em>very</em>, willing.</p><p>This time, Jaskier shamelessly grinds down against Geralt’s groin and is delighted to hear another strangled groan leave his lips and feel his fingers tighten almost imperceptibly against their tunic. </p><p>Yes, Geralt seems <em>very</em> willing indeed. </p><p>Jaskier tugs at Geralt’s shirt in a request to continue and he dutifully disposes of it, tossing it somewhere between the dorm beds. Jaskier starts exploring his chest and arms, attempting to memorise the feel of rippling muscles beneath their fingers, like a sculptor would a model. Geralt possesses a body so magnificent that Jaskier is frequently rendered incoherent by the mere sight of it. The fact that they are permitted to touch as well makes their head spin; they ought not have the right to sully such divine beauty, but they’re not foolish enough to question their good fortune. Whatever motive (or lapse of judgement) Geralt has for sleeping with them no longer seems to be a singular event, and Jaskier intends to take advantage of these repeat performances to memorise every inch of their partner’s body – so that when Geralt eventually comes to his senses, Jaskier won’t be left entirely bereft.  </p><p>Geralt chuckles at whatever nonsensical monologue had escaped their lips about his body. There’s a glint in his eye when he laughs, just as beautiful and rare as the precious gems tucked away on their parents’ estate. Jaskier is so distracted by this marvel that it takes them a moment to register Geralt’s hands tugging at their tunic in a mirrored request to disrobe.</p><p>Anxiety shoots up their spine, sudden and sickening. Jaskier’s hands dart forward to cover Geralt’s hands, dissuading the action.</p><p>Geralt looks at Jaskier with a questioning frown as his hands are pushed away.</p><p><em>Fuck</em>.</p><p>Jaskier doesn’t even know what triggered this fight-or-flight response. Geralt has seen them naked before. It shouldn't be a hurdle. And yet.</p><p>Jaskier bites their lip as the reasoning for their distress makes itself apparent. It’s the position. If they fuck like this, Jaskier will be able to see their body as they fuck Geralt – at the bounce of their breasts and the curves of their hips – and that is something their brain apparently cannot handle today. They can, in theory, be naked with Geralt, and they can also ride him to madness, but they cannot feasibly combine the two. “It stays on,” Jaskier says, and hopes that this is explanation enough.</p><p>It is. </p><p>Geralt nods and returns to kissing them as if an objection was never raised. Jaskier breathes a sigh of relief at his easy acceptance and lets Geralt’s indulgent kisses chase away the last tendrils of their anxiety. When Geralt returns his hands to their waist, his touch is light and hesitant, only firming when Jaskier's fingers lace through his and guide him beneath their tunic. Geralt's reaction to this invitation is instantaneous, surging against Jaskier and running his hands along their sides, then pressing against the small of their back, then squeezing their behind in encouragement.</p><p>Jaskier moans into his mouth, thrilled by his enthusiasm and rises from their kneeling position just enough to remove Geralt’s breeches and smallclothes. Geralt obligingly kicks them away, allowing his erection to stand tall, as Jaskier returns to straddle him. </p><p>“What do you want?” Geralt whispers against their lips, stroking his hands along their sides in a reassuring manner. Jaskier is fairly certain they could request anything right now from the Witcher and he would give it. The fact that he even thinks to ask, instead of simply <em>taking,</em> briefly makes Jaskier regret ever laying with anyone else. </p><p>Jaskier feels Geralt's erection brushing against their folds and knows very much what they want. They want to feel Geralt inside them. Jaskier is fairly certain they can handle the aftermath today, especially if Geralt is here to distract them from the inevitable dissonance, and they want it <em>so bad</em>. “Your cock,” Jaskier states, and then thinks they ought to clarify: “inside me.” Geralt's eyes grow wide in wonder, and before there can be any misunderstandings, Jaskier takes his hand and guides it to their wet opening. “If you so desire,” they add, because if Geralt is taking the time to be considerate about their needs then the least they can do is return the favour. </p><p>Geralt groans, his desire evident, and cautiously teases the entrance with his fingertips. Jaskier shudders against him with the effort of restraining their desire to take him deeper. “Are you certain?” Geralt asks.</p><p>This time, the shudder that passes through Jaskier isn’t entirely venereal. They do not know another man who would recognise the distress inherent in such a routine sexual act, let alone take the time to assure his partner that it is not in any way expected. If anything, Geralt’s hesitation confirms their decision to lay with him in this manner. Jaskier nods their head, locking onto Geralt’s eyes, “I’m certain.”</p><p>Then Geralt's fingers are breaching them and they clutch at his shoulders in both ecstasy and anxiety. <em>It’ll be okay, it’ll be okay</em>… and when Geralt twists their fingers and finds that hidden place inside them, Jaskier becomes certain of the fact. </p><p>Geralt’s fingers are calloused and sure, and Jaskier finds themself approaching climax distressingly quickly. Geralt seems to sense their need and moves his fingers relentlessly inside of them, causing the base of his hand to brush delightfully against their clit, until Jaskier’s pleasure peaks. </p><p>Jaskier is soon lost in the haze of orgasm but they swear somewhere during the high that they hear the word ‘beautiful’ murmured against their skin. Jaskier sighs and opens their eyes to see Geralt looking right back at them with awe. Objectively, Jaskier knows that they look good – they wouldn’t manage to coax so many people into their bed otherwise – but they can’t help but wonder what else Geralt sees in them; what else he must see to make him look at them with such depth of emotion.</p><p>Jaskier whimpers, overwhelmed by the sight, and cradles Geralt’s face to pull him into a fierce and passionate kiss. Geralt tangles his fingers in their hair and returns the kiss just as ardently and it shatters any self-restraint that Jaskier had remaining as they knock away his hand and begin to lower themself onto his cock instead. </p><p>They both moan into the kiss and only break away when Jaskier is fully seated and they both need to gasp for breath. </p><p>“<em>Fuck</em>,” Jaskier swears emphatically. It’s possible, in the nine months that have passed since they last took Geralt like this, that they had forgotten the extent of his girth and how good – <em>oh, how good</em> – it feels. They rock their hips in testing little movements and every deep touch inside them makes them want to cry out in pleasure. </p><p>Geralt is breathing a laugh against their lips and grasping their buttocks in his hands to pull them closer and it’s all… very good indeed. Jaskier makes a strangled noise of pleasure and begins moving in earnest, relieved to find that their movements are assisted with Geralt’s broad hands and thrust of hips. It feels practically effortless to ride him and although they start out slow and sensual, it isn’t long before Jaskier is grinding wantonly in his lap, only held back by Geralt’s marginally less desperate hands on their hips. </p><p>Jaskier takes to begging against his lips, needing Geralt deeper and harder and <em>now</em>, and it strikes them that the advantage of this position is that they can distract themself from the exquisite torture by twisting their hands in his hair and locking their lips together; doing everything in their power to drive Geralt to the same point of madness. </p><p>Geralt soon gives in with a strangled groan, and assists Jaskier’s urgent little movements as they both chase their climax. Jaskier stumbles over the edge with a scream that would make Valda blush, and Geralt grunts wordlessly not long afterwards, spilling deep inside them.</p><p>Jaskier clings to him afterwards, trading kisses, and delaying the inevitable disgust that will soon follow. Geralt’s softened member slips out between them and Jaskier shudders at the unpleasant sensation. A moment later, and the unease seems to have spread; the squirming sensation beneath their skin erupting into nausea. Jaskier whimpers and buries their head against Geralt’s shoulder, wishing the unwelcome feeling to go away. They hate that this happens; that what had been a perfectly pleasant experience sours so quickly. They shudder again and Jaskier panics, knowing that the Witcher must be able to smell their distress and might not understand why, but then Geralt’s arms are wrapping around them, and rocking them gently, and tears of a different kind spring to Jaskier’s eyes even as the discomforting sensation of dissonance takes their body.</p><p>“What can I do?” he murmurs, and no, this isn’t right. He’s being too nice, Jaskier doesn’t deserve this, they don’t deserve… Firm fingers come to cradle Jaskier’s jaw and force their eyes to meet liquid gold. “Jaskier,” he says, so deep and sincere, and more tears slip unbidden from Jaskier’s eyes. “What can I do?”</p><p>Jaskier shudders as another wave of disgust passes through them. They wish they knew. There isn’t anything that makes this better. Ashamed, they wipe the back of their hand roughly against their tear-stained cheeks, bitter that they’ve ruined their morning. Last night was perfect and now… </p><p>“Would a bath help?”</p><p>Right. Geralt is still here. Being too sweet, too kind, too… “Yes,” they realise, processing the question belatedly. “That might help.”</p><p>Geralt nods, and before Jaskier can protest, they are being wrapped in a blanket and carried towards the bathhouse.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I can only apologise to anyone who came to this fic straight after reading Lavender because you must have the most severe whiplash rn -- all this communication and explicit consent, my god, what a wonder.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Jaskier's song -- the Doppler's Disguise -- is quoted in this chapter, you can listen or read lyrics over <a href="https://vands38.tumblr.com/post/623737008538386432/from-the-fic-return-to-oxenfurt-by-vands88-the">here</a></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Geralt drifts into a doze while Jaskier sprawls against his side, fast asleep. The sour scent of distress that clung to Jaskier has faded with the trip to the bathhouse, but Jaskier barely spoke a word throughout, and gave into their exhaustion as soon as their head hit the pillow. Anxiety takes a lot out of people, Geralt supposes, whatever its manifestation. </p><p>Geralt has felt uneasy ever since the first scent of distress emanated from Jaskier. He despises that smell. He knows it all too well – from terrified strangers passing him on the street, from victims in the clutches of monsters, from a dozen other horrific situations that Geralt encounters daily – but he never expected it from Jaskier. The scent of a bedmate’s distress, in particular, always makes his stomach churn. It usually emanates from sex workers when they are first alone with the Witcher, or see his scars, or the size of his manhood, and it is usually a whisper of panic easily dissuaded, not the overwhelming surge that Jaskier displayed that morning. </p><p>Geralt had been paralyzed by his own fear until he realised that Jaskier wasn’t reacting to Geralt’s presence like he had supposed, but at the act itself – or, more accurately, the aftermath. </p><p>He suspects why the act was so triggering for Jaskier but while he is afraid to ask, and Jaskier is unwilling to volunteer any such information, his suspicions cannot be confirmed. Jaskier doesn’t owe him an explanation, of course, but Geralt yearns to know what exactly he did to engender this reaction so he can be sure he doesn’t inadvertently trigger it again. He wonders if Jaskier knew this would happen afterwards, and, if so, why they would ask for the act regardless. </p><p>The thought that unsettles Geralt the most is the possibility that this is not the first time that Jaskier has had this reaction; that Jaskier might frequently go through such distress after their couplings but that Geralt had never stayed long enough to find out. He imagines Jaskier, shaking and sweating and scared, curled up naked and alone on ruined bedsheets, and the idea makes Geralt sick with guilt.</p><p>Feeling deeply protective of his bard, Geralt holds them in his arms, heedless of the wet hair seeping into his shirt, and tries to assuage the guilt that threatens to overwhelm him. <em>Jaskier had requested the act</em>, he reminds himself, <em>Jaskier had <span class="u">enjoyed</span> their coupling</em>… up until they didn’t. <em>Fuck</em>. </p><p>Geralt grits his teeth, cursing himself for the oversight. He wonders if Jaskier hates him for what he has done. He wonders if he should leave. Or if that would make it worse.</p><p>Geralt is so occupied by his inner turmoil that it takes him a moment to realise that Jaskier has sleepily murmured something into his chest. </p><p>“Hmm?” </p><p>“My music…” Jaskier says on a yawn, rolling his head on Geralt’s shoulder so that he may speak unimpeded. “You never told me what you thought of it.”</p><p>Geralt breathes a sigh of relief at the change in conversation. If Jaskier is capable of contemplating other things, then they must be on the mend. </p><p>Geralt casts his mind back to Jaskier’s performance at the festival. The music. How was it? Good. Varied. Pretty. Geralt lacks the vocabulary to provide Jaskier with the intricate bardic critique he’s probably used to, so he frowns and thinks about what feedback <em>would</em> be useful. “Inaccurate,” he grunts.</p><p>“Huh?” Jaskier asks, blinking the sleep from their eyes.</p><p>Geralt feels a stab of guilt. That was probably rude. Jaskier’s meant to be sleeping, he should have just said ‘nice’ and be done with it, but now Jaskier is looking at him with curiosity and he can’t back out.</p><p>“Inaccurate,” Geralt repeats. “You said the doppler saw the maid from across the bar and took her for his next disguise,” he says with a shake of his head, “That wouldn’t work. Dopplers have to touch the person they imitate.”</p><p>Jaskier tilts their head and looks at him with a disconcerting amount of curiosity. He’s immediately wary. Academics looking at him like that was the reason he stepped into Oxenfurt Academy in the first place. </p><p>“And the drinking song,” Geralt adds in a hurry, “that’s inaccurate too. Ghouls aren’t interested in sheep, and they certainly wouldn’t ‘gnaw your femur’ like an ill-trained pup – they would have torn your poor farmer to shreds.”</p><p>Jaskier is now <em>grinning</em>. Geralt frowns. Glee probably spells more trouble than curiosity. The sight causes something strange to twist in his stomach. Despite fearing for his imminent future, he notes that it is pleasant to see a smile on his companion’s face. </p><p>“What?” he grunts, wishing to get whatever this is over with as soon as possible.</p><p>Jaskier’s grin widens impossibly further. “I should come with you this summer.”</p><p>Geralt raises an eyebrow. He isn’t often taken by surprise, yet, somehow, Jaskier keeps delivering.</p><p>“Not for <em>this</em> –” Jaskier comments with a wave of their hand, indicating their damp, mostly-naked bodies, “– unless you were interested, mind, I definitely wouldn’t say no – but for <em>that</em>,” they insist, tapping at Geralt’s temple, implying the knowledge that lies beneath. “I want <em>that</em>.” </p><p>“Then read a book,” Geralt grumbles.</p><p>Jaskier shakes their head and leans up on their elbow, their enthusiasm apparently chasing away the last remnants of sleep. “I don’t want textbook definitions, Geralt! I want the <em>reality</em>. Real adventures would make for better stories. I want to see you best these beasts and live to tell the tale!” Jaskier’s arms are flailing now, acting out whatever fantasy of fame they’re envisioning. “Oh! I could be your barker! Spreading the tales of Geralt of Rivia, the amber-eyed wolf!” </p><p>Geralt groans and throws an arm over his eyes as if it might block out Jaskier’s sunny disposition. It does not. “It’s dangerous, Jaskier,” he grunts, lowering his hand to look at his companion with as much seriousness as he can muster half-naked, “too dangerous for…” he was going to say ‘a woman’ except that Geralt suspects that’s no longer the right descriptor for Jaskier, “a noble,” he amends, and then, “someone untrained,” he clarifies when Jaskier makes a noise of protest at the reminder of their birthright. </p><p>Jaskier flops back on the bed, as dramatic as ever. “I’d keep myself out of trouble –” </p><p>Geralt looks at his companion with a raised eyebrow, recalling the number of fistfights Jaskier nearly started last night defending his honour as a Witcher and anticipating just how many more he would have to intercept in the backwaters of Velen. </p><p>“Right, right, <em>fine</em>, I guess you know me a little too well to believe that, but –” they say with a raised finger, “as you so aptly point out, I <em>am</em> a noble. I can keep you in food, and lodgings, and potions, and repairs –” </p><p>Geralt clears his throat. “That’s not necessary,” he says, even though he often longs for those simple comforts.  </p><p>“I can write more songs about you –”</p><p>“‘More?’” Geralt enquires with a frown. “You haven’t written me any.”</p><p>Jaskier flushes bright red and it’s enough to give Geralt pause and attempt to recall the songs he heard yesterday. There was something about amber eyes… “New songs!” Jaskier declares, perhaps a little too quickly. “I meant, new songs! About the great adventures of the White Wolf Witcher! Yes! Give me a chance, Geralt, let me walk the Path beside you, and I’ll build you a brand new reputation and bury that vile unearned moniker for good –”</p><p>“How do you know it’s unearned?” Geralt interjects bitterly, circumventing the surprising revelation that apparently Jaskier has noticed his distaste for the ‘Butcher of Blaviken’ moniker and seemingly despises it as much as he does. “Perhaps I did butcher all those people in Blaviken just as the tale goes.”</p><p>Jaskier shakes their head vehemently and abandons their excited exuberance in favour of cupping Geralt’s face, sweetly, and oddly sincerely. “I don’t believe it’s in your heart to do such a thing. You may tell me your version of events one day, if you like – so that I may, through my humble songs, correct the record – but your account of that day is by no means expected, nor necessary in any way.”</p><p>Geralt looks away from their earnest gaze.</p><p>Jaskier sighs and shrugs, falling back against Geralt’s side, and tracing his medallion thoughtfully with their finger. “Let me travel with you,” they plead. “One season, Geralt, and if your purse isn’t heavier by the end of it, then I will never ask for the privilege again.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt muses, allowing the sound of contemplation to rumble in his chest. </p><p>This was likely to end in disaster, but had he not wanted a way to fix his sullied reputation? He had witnessed only yesterday how easily Jaskier swayed the audience with easy charm and a rudimentary song. There is a certain power in music. Coin, too. He doesn’t doubt Jaskier’s talents. One summer with Jaskier by his side could result in the story of Blaviken finally being laid to rest. </p><p>“Fine,” he grunts, and Jaskier squeals in joy. “But,” he says, before Jaskier can get too carried away. “None of this…” he says, indicating their entwined bodies, “on the road. It’s too much of a distraction. And you stay at a safe distance when I’m working.”</p><p>Jaskier nods eagerly. “Got it. Yes, sir Witcher. Understood. Safe distance. No frolicking on the Path.” Then they contradict this statement entirely by cupping Geralt’s face and kissing him deeply. </p><p><em>Yes,</em> Geralt thinks with resignation, <em>this was definitely a mistake.</em></p><p>Jaskier breaks away with a manic grin. “So, when do we leave?”</p><p>Geralt reaches for their hair and attempts to tame the wild mess of tangles, affording him an opportunity to admire this beautiful youth before him, soon to be worn down by the Path. “Tomorrow morning work for you?” </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter 14</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jaskier is sprawled across Geralt’s magnificent chest, recovering from a little spontaneous midday frottage, when Valda returns from her entanglement with Professor Ocimus.</p><p>Jaskier cracks open an eye to examine her. Valda looks anything but content; her countenance is downtrodden and she sports the same dress as yesterday, now wrinkled with wear. “Over the desk again, I presume?” </p><p>Valda scowls. “Over your Witcher again, I see.”</p><p>Jaskier smirks, thankful that Geralt seems to be sleeping (or at least, pretending to sleep) through their whispered bickering. “‘Over’ being the operative word,” Jaskier teases, tapping Geralt’s chest beneath them in an illustrative manner. “I do so love being on top.”</p><p>Valda crinkles her nose in disgust and throws a blanket over the two of them. “Doesn’t mean I want to see it, thanks.”</p><p>Jaskier snorts a laugh and sleepily tucks their head back under Geralt’s chin. “It went alright though?” Jaskier asks, eying Valda’s body as she strips in the filtered midday sun, looking for bruises and finding only the usual indentations of fingers around her hips.</p><p>Valda shrugs as she changes, sending her loose blonde hair cascading down her back. “It went fine.”</p><p>Not the stellar review Jaskier was hoping for, but this has become Valda’s standard response of late. “There are other ways to satisfy your needs, you know,” Jaskier reminds her, in a voice that is just a little too sincere to be teasing. Their eyes fall to the box beneath Valda’s bed that contains a particular phallus that they are both quite fond of, and knows that Valda understands their meaning. </p><p>Valda, however, shrugs and slips under her blanket. “Thomas is more than just <em>equipment </em>to me, you heartless fiend. He has other qualities.”</p><p>“Like <em>what</em>?!” Jaskier can’t help but exclaim in disbelief. As far as they’re concerned, Professor Ocimus is only proficient in one thing and that’s deluding smart women into thinking he’s at all worth their time. </p><p>“None of your business, Jas. I’m done talking about this. Go to sleep.”</p><p>Valda sniffles and turns her back to them, discouraging Jaskier from speaking any further. Jaskier intends to say more, but then Geralt is tightening his arms around them, all warm and comforting, and Jaskier finds themself falling back to sleep.</p><p>-</p><p>They wake up in the early afternoon, when Valda is still unmoving beneath the blankets, and get dressed as quietly as they can. Jaskier leads Geralt back into the hubbub of the music festival and plies him with game pie and ale and anything else they can charm from the vendors. The two of them watch a few performances while they eat, Jaskier both criticising and learning from the fellow musicians, until they notice Geralt growing fidgety beside them.</p><p>“Shit, sorry, this must be terribly dull for you, we can –”</p><p>Geralt shakes his head, cutting Jaskier’s apology short. “It’s fine. I ought to run my errands though, if we are to set out at dawn tomorrow.” </p><p>“Oh! Of course!” Jaskier says, already halfway out of their seat. “I’ll come with –”</p><p>“No need,” Geralt says with another shake of his head, gently urging Jaskier back onto the bench. “Enjoy the festival. I will return in due course.”</p><p>“Oh,” Jaskier says, unused to this whole ‘returning’ gambit. Geralt never used to promise such a thing. Jaskier is determined not to sound as needy as last time though, so instead, they take a swig of their ale and nod. “Excellent. I’ll make sure to take note of any inaccuracies for you.”</p><p>“You do that,” Geralt says, with a small smile. It’s a secret smile. The kind that is meant only for Jaskier – all soft and open, the way the Witcher cannot afford to be seen outside those he trusts – and it makes Jaskier’s heart flutter in a way that they know is dangerous.</p><p>Geralt doesn’t give them a kiss goodbye, but Jaskier wasn’t expecting one. If the two of them are to travel together over summer, then they need to learn to be together outside of sex. </p><p>Jaskier tells themself that they’re fine with this arrangement. It was their idea after all, and it is no hardship to sacrifice their intimate relationship for the much greater boon of being Geralt’s trusted travel companion. However, it doesn’t mean that Jaskier has magically stopped being attracted to Geralt. Geralt is still very, <em>very</em> attractive. </p><p>Jaskier sighs and drinks their ale, and tries not to feel too forlorn about their futile future. </p><p>-</p><p>Jaskier is relieved when Geralt keeps his word and returns not two hours later. They pass a pleasant evening at the festival, eating their fill and drinking far less than the night before. Geralt still appears to be distracted by something, but it’s not until night has fallen and they’re packing away their gwent cards that Jaskier finally understands what has the witcher feeling so unsettled. </p><p>Geralt is shuffling his deck and averting his eyes when he clears his throat and asks in the most awkward manner, “Can I… ask about earlier?”</p><p>Jaskier tenses; their own cards forgotten. They don’t need Geralt to specify which ‘earlier’ they reference; not when his stilted question and awkward manner do so for them. He means what happened that morning, when Jaskier had freaked out and dissociated and needed to be carried to the bathhouse like a fucking child. Jaskier was doing just fine pretending that never happened but apparently Geralt has other ideas.</p><p>“I don’t mean –” he starts, and Jaskier looks up in time to see him wince. Well, as long as this conversation is painful for the both of them. “You don’t need to explain it to me. I just want to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Whatever I did –” he winces again, and swallows, and Jaskier suddenly realises exactly why Geralt is being so fucking weird about this.</p><p>They instinctively reach for his hand and cover it with their own. “It wasn’t your fault, Geralt,” they reassure, urgently enough that they cut off whatever self-deprecating crap Geralt had been spouting. <em>Fuck</em>. Has Geralt been blaming himself for what happened this morning the whole time? “Fuck, sorry, I didn’t realise you –” Jaskier is saying, before another absurd thought occurs to them: Geralt is worried about it happening <em>again</em>. Does that mean he is planning to resume their intimate relations after summer? </p><p>Right, no, they can’t think about that right now. </p><p>Jaskier shakes that absurd thought from their head and continues, “You did nothing wrong. It was me. I thought I could handle something, and I couldn’t. I wanted it, I swear,” they emphasise. “You have nothing to apologise for. And I’m – fuck, I’m so embarrassed about what happened afterwards but so thankful that you…” </p><p>Jaskier ducks their head and ruffles their hair, attempting to dislodge the discomfort that takes hold at the reminder of that morning. “Please can we just –?” Jaskier pinches the bridge of their nose, and breathes deep and steady until the nausea passes. “Can we cease talking about this? Please?”</p><p>Geralt nods, and downs the remains of his ale. His eyes are still averted. “Certainly. It’s getting late anyway. I should walk you back to the Academy.”</p><p>“Oh. You don’t have to –”</p><p>“I’m going to. Drink up.”</p><p>*</p><p>Geralt curses himself afterwards. Not only did Jaskier clearly not want to discuss what happened that morning but Geralt realised almost as soon as the words left his mouth that his reasoning for bringing it up was entirely fallacious. He will not hurt Jaskier in the same manner again, because they have no plans to fall into bed again. Therefore, he did not need to ask.</p><p>Jaskier’s answer doesn’t reassure him much either. Geralt wants to tell Jaskier that they needn’t be embarrassed or ashamed about what happened but before he can verbalise any such assurances, Jaskier requests his silence on the matter, and Geralt dutifully obeys given that he had been untoward in asking in the first place.</p><p>Geralt walks Jaskier back to the Southern Isle, and knows his steps are faltering. He doesn’t want to depart, for as soon as they do, their new arrangement takes place. He proposed celibacy on the road because it really is safer for them both – he cannot be naked and entangled and distracted in the wilderness surrounded by monsters – but their relationship has always been so centred on their couplings that he rightly doesn’t know how he will resist the temptation all summer long. Even now, he knows he looks at Jaskier and his eyes linger. Even now, he is tempted to walk Jaskier all the way back to their dorm so they can indulge in one more night of intimacy… </p><p>It was going to be a very long summer. </p><p>“So, this is me,” Jaskier says, in an extremely redundant sentence as they reach the gates of the Academy. Geralt recognises it for the ultimatum that it is though: <em>step through the gates and spend the night with me, or be on your way</em>. </p><p>He wishes he could indulge the former but it is time for boundaries to be established. If they were to wake up together, and start walking the Path together…</p><p>Jaskier is scuffing their feet and glancing up at Geralt through their eyelashes, and Geralt’s heart warms at the sight. Jaskier is one of the most confident people Geralt has ever met, but at times, also oddly shy. They are an eternal dichotomy; one that Geralt finds endless fascinating. </p><p>And if this is his last chance to kiss Jaskier, then he’s damn well going to make it memorable. </p><p>*</p><p>Jaskier ambles back to the dormitory, with a skip in their step and the taste of Geralt on their lips. Tomorrow, Jaskier will send word to their parents’ estate, but not today. Jaskier will not truly believe Geralt wishes to spend the summer with them until Oxenfurt is far behind them.</p><p>Nothing takes the wind out their sails, though, like returning to find the curtains still drawn and Valda still hunched beneath the blanket. She must have been here all day. <em>Fuck Thomas Ocimus, </em>Jaskier thinks viciously,<em> fuck him to the moon and back.</em></p><p>“Valda? You okay?”</p><p>When Valda doesn’t respond, Jaskier wakes her and encourages her to eat the remains of their abandoned breakfast. She does so, begrudgingly, before scuttling back beneath the blanket. </p><p>Jaskier sighs and decides the least they can do is finish packing. The majority of their belongings will be sent to their new lodgings for the next academic year, but they put their lute aside and fill a knapsack with a handful of clothes and a few essential belongings. </p><p>Jaskier doesn’t realise they have an audience until they approach Valda’s bed and see her red-rimmed eyes examining their belongings. “You’re leaving with him, aren’t you?” she asks.</p><p>Jaskier nods, and slips into bed beside her, gathering their friend in their arms and hoping it brings a semblance of comfort where words would undoubtedly fail. </p><p>“We’re leaving tomorrow morn,” Jaskier says, barely managing to keep the excitement out of their voice. “Don’t worry, I’ll still write to you in Cidaris, as often as I am able. Honestly, I can scarcely believe this is real; I’ve half a mind that I’ll walk to the stables tomorrow to find him gone.” Jaskier swallows their nerves, and continues with only a slight shake to their voice, “Even if he wasn’t pulling my leg, I’ve no doubt he’ll get sick of me before September. I might even beat you back to Oxenfurt.”</p><p>Valda shakes her head and nestles into their embrace. “He won’t get sick of you.”</p><p>Jaskier huffs in disbelief. “You say that, but you know all I’ve got is my charm and a large sexual appetite – once he sees past that, he’ll be bored silly.”</p><p>“Be careful.”</p><p>“Of the wee beasties? Yes, I was planning on keeping my distance.”</p><p>Valda swats them playfully on the chest. “Of your <em>heart</em>, you imbecile.” </p><p>“Oh. Yes,” Jaskier says belatedly. “That.”</p><p>Jaskier doesn’t have the heart to tell her that they’ve already accepted their fate as a broken-hearted fool; destined to trail after the Witcher for the rest of their days. As they fall asleep entwined for the last time in this shared room, Jaskier wonders which one of them will return to Oxenfurt more broken-hearted when the first autumnal leaves start to fall. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>There's some big things for Jaskier on the horizon, so I'd like to take this opportunity to thank my fantastic sensitivity readers <a href="https://alittleunder-rehearsed.tumblr.com/">alittleunder-rehearsed</a> &amp; starbit for all their patience, advice, and information. (And butter them up in advance for all the extra work they're about to be doing.) I love and appreciate you, thank you so much &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Chapter 15</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this chapter once again discusses Jaskier's song "The Doppler's Disguise" -- you can read the lyrics / listen to it / download it <a href="https://vands38.tumblr.com/post/623737008538386432/from-the-fic-return-to-oxenfurt-by-vands88-the">here</a></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Geralt is pleased to find that Jaskier adapts fairly well to life on the Path. Admittedly, Jaskier talks more than anyone surely need talk, and gets themself into plenty of trouble, and seemingly flirts with every passing stranger… but they’re enthusiastic, and eager to learn, and within a week, Jaskier is able to carry out most routine tasks without complaint. </p><p>After two weeks, Geralt realises that the chatter is actually a pleasant respite from the monotony of his own thoughts, that most of the trouble surrounding Jaskier stems from trying (foolishly) to protect Geralt, and that the flirting… well, the flirting is still a hindrance, but Jaskier is young and Geralt cannot begrudge them for seeking intimacies where they can, given that Geralt is no longer providing them. </p><p>He also notices that Jaskier is frequently mistaken for a boy, and that Jaskier does not seem to object. The first time a travelling merchant made this assumption just outside of Oxenfurt, Jaskier seemed caught off guard and was stumbling over a reply when Geralt took it upon himself to divert attention, but now it happens frequently enough that Jaskier isn’t startled at all. They look almost pleased? Or relieved. Geralt can’t quite place the expression. But when he glimpses at Jaskier sometimes, there is a small, cautious smile at the corner of their lips.</p><p>Geralt supposes it is safer to be mistaken as a man rather than as a woman in the wilderness of Velen, but Geralt has yet to work out if this is anything more than simple happenstance. While at Oxenfurt, Jaskier could be kept clean and prim and proper, and artfully walk between the lines of gender, whereas on the road they have no such luxury. Most days, Jaskier dresses in sturdy boots, tight trousers, and a loose-fitting shirt; their wild short hair does well to parry their feminine cheekbones, and the constant thin layer of grime from the road does well to hide their soft features. Jaskier packed no dresses or frills, and the most ornamental piece of clothing they have is a navy blue doublet that they pull on when the breeze turns cold. It is practical apparel for the road, of course, but these garments also happen to be the ones most often ascribed to men. </p><p>Jaskier seems perfectly content by the “he”s and “him”s that they are bestowed by passing strangers, but while they still refer to themself as “Jaskier” and not “Dandelion”, Geralt does not know if these male pronouns are truly desired on Jaskier’s behalf. Geralt has thought about asking a handful of times – a simple question to clarify if he ought to be using these pronouns as well, at least in public – but has fallen short of asking every time. He tried asking the first time, after all, and Jaskier had either misunderstood or willfully misinterpreted the question. After two weeks of uncertainty, Geralt reasons it is fair to ask again, if only because he is afraid of inadvertently hurting Jaskier with his blundering avoidance if he does not. </p><p>The stars are just coming out one night; their bellies full and the taste of mead on their tongue as they lie side-by-side, staring up at the stars. Before travelling with Jaskier, Geralt would never have thought to pass the time like this, but they have laid like this a handful of times now, and it always feels oddly intimate, and oddly safe. Jaskier will draw constellations from the stars and fabricate stories about whatever they see, and Geralt will listen, letting their melodic voice lull him into a light meditation. It is peaceful. Which is perhaps why, of all times, Geralt lets himself ask – </p><p>“The alderman thought you were a boy.”</p><p>Jaskier turns their head towards him and shrugs against the grass, but otherwise does not comment.</p><p>Geralt inhales deeply, fear striking his heart. Jaskier always has something to say. The fact that they are content to wait until <em>Geralt</em> speaks is deeply worrying. “The girl outside Mulbrydale did too. And the barmaid, last week, when we restocked our supplies.”</p><p>Jaskier bites their lip and shakes their head before looking back to the stars. “What are you trying to say, Geralt?” they ask, their voice lacking any of their characteristic inflection. </p><p>This is definitely dangerous territory. Perhaps Geralt ought to steer clear. Then again, he’s never been one to back down from a challenge. He licks his lips, contemplating how best to phrase this, and eventually settles on, “Do you... <em>want</em> that?” </p><p>Jaskier is distractedly playing with a long blade of grass in their hands, but their face is still tilted upwards, marred with a frown of immense concentration. “I…” </p><p>The scent of distress paired with the furrowed brow immediately causes Geralt to backtrack, “Sorry. It’s none of my business. You don’t have to –” </p><p>“It’s fine,” Jaskier cuts him off, throwing an arm across Geralt’s chest as if to stop him from leaving. “I just don’t know how to answer you. How to explain it. I don’t – I don’t know how.”</p><p>Geralt breathes a small sigh of relief. Jaskier is not angry; they’re <em>tongue-tied</em> – a phenomenon that Geralt had previously assumed Jaskier was immune to. </p><p>Geralt turns back to the sky and waits for Jaskier to either abandon the conversation or attempt to explain. Jaskier’s arm does not leave his chest. The weight is comforting. The sound of the summer’s night around them and the immense sky before him almost feels like the embrace he is missing. </p><p>Eventually, Jaskier starts to hum softly under their breath. It’s a sad song. One that Geralt recognises but cannot place until the bard starts whispering lyrics… <em>he’ll switch his face once again, then look in the river and realise nothing’s changed… </em></p><p>The song about the doppler. Geralt feels chastised that he did not recognise the personal meaning of that song before now. He is not one for metaphor, he supposes, but even an uneducated Witcher ought to be able to find the similarities between the story of the doppler who tries on different faces in the search to find himself, and the androgynous person who wrote it. Jaskier fears they don’t know who they are; that they will keep trying face after face (gender after gender) and never find the one that <em>fits</em>. </p><p>A great sadness overcomes Geralt as he recognises the desolation that Jaskier is feeling, even if they cannot yet put words to it. </p><p>
  <em>the moral is this, my fellow souls:
don’t let them know there’s no one to behold </em>
</p><p>Geralt inhales sharply. Is this how Jaskier thinks of themself? That there’s nothing “beneath the mask”? That Geralt would leave them, just as the husband does the doppler, when she reveals her true self? </p><p>Geralt looks across at Jaskier, dismayed at the implication, and even further distraught to see silent tears slip from their closed eyes. He doesn’t know how to reassure Jaskier; what words would make this right. Geralt would still find Jaskier fascinating regardless of how they physically present. Gender is inconsequential to him, but to some people, he supposes, it matters greatly. </p><p>Geralt is so afraid of saying the wrong thing that in the end, he doesn’t say anything at all. He feels the comfort of Jaskier’s arm across his chest, and yearns to give them the same comfort. He covers Jaskier’s hand with his own and gently squeezes in reassurance.  </p><p>He feels Jaskier relax beside him, and witnesses the long exhale leave their chest. They turn their head back towards Geralt and by the light of the full moon, Geralt knows Jaskier can just about see the soft smile on his face. Geralt doesn’t try to hide his affection anymore. Jaskier has never teased him for it, or – as far as he’s aware – told anyone in their acquaintance that the fearsome Witcher can be rendered so gentle by a lover’s touch. He trusts Jaskier with the hidden parts of him. It’s terrifying. Exhilarating. But mostly, it just feels safe. </p><p>A small answering smile appears on their face; their eyes twinkling like the stars above them. </p><p>Geralt’s stomach lurches in the way that he is beginning to recognise as an affliction of affection, and his smile ticks to the side in response. </p><p>Looking into Jaskier’s eyes, he suddenly knows the right thing to say. “Before the mutations,” he starts, and then waits for the gravity of the memory to take hold. He closes his eyes as the ancient pain is allowed to surface. He feels Jaskier’s fingers twitch underneath his and it reminds him of why he is doing this and gives him the strength to continue, “I had brown hair. Green eyes. You wouldn’t have recognised me.” He opens his eyes again and looks across at his companion; a man who he could have grown up to be, if destiny had not had another path in mind. </p><p>“The mutagens changed almost everything about me. It’s strange, but as vicious and unpleasant as the Witcher Trials were, I realise now that I was not truly myself until I had endured them.” He pauses in his tale, making sure that Jaskier understands the lesson that he is trying to impart. Jaskier smiles back softly, with gentle curiosity in their eyes, and Geralt thinks they understand. “It took me a long time to accept who I was, but when I had… it felt like it was always meant to be.”  	</p><p>Jaskier nods, slow and forlorn, then they turn their inquisitive eyes back to Geralt. “When did you know? That it was right?”</p><p>Geralt hums in contemplation as he tries to pinpoint the moment in his youth when he embraced the white hair and amber eyes as his own. “Like your ballad, I suppose. When the doppler sees their reflection and knows it to be wrong –” he glances to Jaskier for confirmation.</p><p>Jaskier nods; a small, pleased smile on their face.</p><p>“I was young, new on the Path, and passed through boggy waters. My hair was drenched in mud, dyed brown, like it used to be. When I returned to the alchemist with the kikimora, I caught my reflection in the rows of glass bottles, and didn’t recognise myself. I thought I would. I thought it might remind me of home. But, instead, my reflection felt like a stranger. It wasn’t until the river washed away the remnants that I felt like me again.”</p><p>Jaskier nods in understanding. “Thank you for telling me,” Jaskier whispers, their fingers tucked tight and close. “I understand, I think. I hope that happens to me one day. That I’ll see myself, and it’ll be… <em>right</em>.”</p><p>“I’m sure it will.”</p><p>Jaskier gives a one armed shrug. “I suppose I’m still just working it out. Trial and error, like you said that very first time we met.”</p><p>Geralt frowns, not having remembered giving any such wisdom. He was fairly certain the lecture had been about a massacre. “What did I say?”</p><p>Jaskier chuckles. The movement brings them closer, pressing their clothed shoulders together – Geralt pretends not to notice. Jaskier adjusts their posture and attempts to imitate Geralt as they quote, “‘<em>Sometimes you don’t know what’s right until you know what’s wrong.</em>’”</p><p>Their impression is disturbingly accurate. Geralt frowns. Jaskier laughs again, full-bellied now, no longer weighed down with misery. </p><p>When their laughter has died down, they rest their head against Geralt’s shoulder and sigh. “Of course you don’t remember the one useful lesson you’ve actually taught me –” </p><p>“I’ve taught you plenty of useful lessons, bard. Most of which would save your life if you actually listened.”</p><p>“Oh, yes, you’ve taught me plenty. About chort lures. And subspecies of drowners. And the particular blend of herbs you need for Swallow. And many other incredibly dull details of your life that I –”</p><p>“If you find my life so dull, Jaskier, then perhaps you shouldn’t have come along.”</p><p>“Oh, sod off,” Jaskier protests, with a playful swat against his side. “You know that’s not what I mean. Watching you make the <em>chort</em> <em>lure</em> is dull, you actually facing the chort was… phew! Quite the show!”</p><p>Geralt rolls his eyes. “Your penchant for danger will land you in trouble one day, bard.”</p><p>“It lands me in plenty of trouble now, dearest muse, only that now I have a strong, heroic Witcher to save me.”</p><p>“Not a hero.”</p><p>“I disagree.”</p><p>“Hmm.”</p><p>Jaskier laughs again – as appears to be his standard reaction to Geralt’s non-verbal altercations – and leans up on their elbow to lean over Geralt. They sober quickly, and Geralt frowns, not understanding the reasoning, until Jaskier, quite unpredictably, returns to the conversation that Geralt thought abandoned: “You can use ‘he’ if you like. When we’re in public, when it comes up... I don’t mind.”</p><p>Geralt instinctively relaxes at receiving the confirmation he sought, but he still wants to make sure – “As Jaskier, not as Dandelion?”</p><p>Jaskier bites their lip and nods thoughtfully. “Dandelion is a persona. I don’t… I don’t want to be a persona right now. I want to be me.”</p><p>Geralt nods, and watches as that cautious little smile of Jaskier’s gets a little wider. He doesn’t know when he started being <em>proud</em> of the bard, but he feels the warmth in his chest grow in line with Jaskier’s smile and knows it to be true. </p><p>Then, Jaskier rolls over and stumbles to their feet, staggering towards his bedroll on aching legs. Geralt watches them leave, and tries to convince himself that he feels cold due to the deepening night, not the absence of Jaskier’s arms around him.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Chapter 16</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>we introduce the concept of <em>hart root tea</em> this chapter. we'll cover this more in depth later but essentially it's a magical herb blend that alchemists make to balance hormones. depending on what herb blend you choose, it has different effects. it can be used long term as a tool for transition (HRT - get it???) but when it's mentioned here, it's just as a form of birth control (which, again, works by ingesting certain hormones). so, essentially, any concoction that adjusts hormones in this 'verse is called <em>hart root tea</em> -- it uses the ~magical~ hart root as a base, and then it's like a "pick and mix" of other herbs for other effects that your alchemist (if they're at all competent) can concoct for you. In this world, <em>hart root tea</em> is widely available and costs mere pennies. </p><p>The marvellous concept of <em>hart root tea</em> is lifted from <a href="http://oneshotpodcast.com/actual-play/campaign/skyjacks/">Campaign: Skyjacks</a> which is a great podcast you should all go listen to because it has a) sky pirates, b) a giant, socially-awkward, genderfluid angel, c) trans characters, d) ace characters, e) music that absolutely slaps, f) great cast &amp; GM who regularly raise money for trans orgs and support trans creators. it's good shit, my friends.</p><p>last but not least: <a href="https://vands38.tumblr.com/post/624996628848345088/from-the-fic-return-to-oxenfurt-by-vands88-the">new song!</a></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They are barely outside of Oxenfurt the first time that someone mistakes Jaskier for a boy. It’s a travelling merchant, shouting hurriedly across the dusty road –  “Good morrow, gentlemen! May I interest you in the finest goods this side of the Pontar? I’ve got the perfect dagger for you, lad, if you –”</p><p>Jaskier doesn’t know which one of them is more embarrassed when the merchant’s eyes widen and recognises that he might not be talking to a young “lad” at all. Geralt stiffens, eyes averted. The merchant gasps, all aflutter. And Jaskier? Jaskier is too startled by the irregularity of it all to have much of an outward reaction. </p><p>Here’s the thing: everyone knows who they are in Oxenfurt. The professors call them “Julia” and the punters at Drag Night call them “Dandelion” and there are only really a handful of people – Valda, namely – who know them as Jaskier. The majority of merchants in Oxenfurt first met Jaskier as a “she” and have stuck to their first assessment, whether mistakenly or maliciously, but this merchant? This fellow is a stranger. A stranger who took one look at Jaskier and thought “he” was the right descriptor. </p><p>It causes something curious to unfurl inside them but they don’t have long to analyse it because the merchant is still mumbling away, clearly embarrassed, and Jaskier really ought to intervene before one or the other of them causes offense. </p><p>Jaskier intends to say something cool and casual, but instead what comes out is a squeaky rambling, barely better than the one they’d been trying to interject. “Nice… weather. Great for… daggers, was it? I love me some daggers. The longer and pointer the better.” The merchant flushes, and Jaskier realises their mistake, “Wait! Sorry! That’s not an innuendo! I’m sorry! It’s funny though, isn’t it? How so many everyday items are considered phallic, whereas –” </p><p>“Merchant,” Geralt calls over, “let’s see what you have.” His voice is clear and straight to the point, exactly like Jaskier should have been.</p><p>They look at the wares; Geralt buys Jaskier a dagger which is ridiculous because he only has about twenty crowns to his name but he says something about “being able to protect yourself”, and Jaskier is just about smitten enough to accept any and all gifts from Geralt, including a very useless dagger. </p><p>Then they’re back on the road again, Jaskier idly playing with the dagger until their grip slips and the blade nicks their index finger. They wince and squint up at Geralt, hoping he hasn’t noticed, but the Witcher is still looking at the road in front of them contemplatively. Jaskier pockets it, and half a mile down the road, Geralt interrupts a very interesting story about a prankster in geometry class to ask, “Was that… alright? The way he talked to you?” </p><p>“Oh, yes, I’ve encountered some very pushy salespeople before, that was by no means the worse. I hope you didn’t feel pressured into purchasing that dagger though – not that I don’t appreciate it, I truly do, I just –” Geralt’s nose twitches. “What?”</p><p>Geralt halts Roach and looks down at them with disdain, “I smell blood,” he accuses. “Don’t tell me you somehow managed to maim yourself with the blunt dagger I bought you not even an hour ago.”</p><p>One spontaneous “the pointy end goes here” lecture later, it occurs to Jaskier that Geralt may not have been asking about the merchant’s sales pitch at all. </p><p>-</p><p>It happens again, and again, especially the further down the Path they travel – the “he”s and the “him”s and the “lad”s and the “boy”s grow more frequent than any other descriptor – the sound starts to ring in their ears, and seep into their dreams… </p><p>Dreams, which – might they add – are hard to grasp when they’re lying uncomfortably on the hard and bumpy ground. Jaskier is not a fan of the whole “sleeping outside” thing, or the “bathing in icy rivers” thing or the “collecting firewood until your back aches” thing, but they are very, very fond of the Geralt thing, so they make do.</p><p>However, the discomfort of outdoor camping pales in comparison to the days when they have to travel through towns to collect contracts and coin. It starts with excitement because People! Ale! Shopping! but as soon as they get close enough to draw the attention of the locals, anxiety crawls up their spine instead. Jaskier supposes the sight of a white-haired Witcher accompanied by an androgynous bard is quite the sight, and Jaskier tries to tell themself that the scrutiny of strangers isn’t personal but the sight of narrowed eyes is hard to shrug off, especially when it is followed by what Jaskier can only refer to as The Pronoun Toss-Up as they figure out how to address them. Some of these folk don't even bother – they merely scowl in Jaskier’s direction before dismissing them entirely, and if they’re unlucky, Geralt will glare right back until they’re cowed into scuttling away.</p><p>Geralt, actually, has been very good about it all. Aside from his patience in teaching Jaskier about life on the road, he’s also been very considerate in terms of Jaskier’s specific needs. He makes sure to mention if there’s an alchemist in town so they can subtly restock on their contraceptive potion, and turns his back to give them privacy when changing and bathing, and he even awkwardly asked at the start of their journey if they needed to make amendments in their travel schedule for Jaskier’s “monthlies”. Thus followed a very mortifying conversation where Jaskier explained how the particular blend of herbs they take can suppress such unwelcome inconveniences – </p><p>“Is that a form of hart root then?” he asked casually.</p><p>“Yeah, a mild one, it basically just stabilises the hormones to prevent ovulation.” And then, “Wait, no, I’m sorry, how do you know about <em>hart root tea</em>?” Jaskier exclaimed, wondering why exactly a Witcher would be familiar with human hormone alchemy. </p><p>He shrugged, and continued sharpening his sword. “Around.”</p><p>“Around?” Jaskier parrotted back. “Yeah, real enlightening that. I’ll have to ask about it sometime. ‘Around’,” they quoted with despair, “Honestly Geralt, could you <em>be</em> any more vague?”</p><p>Geralt smirked, clearly finding himself terribly amusing when he replied in a monotone, “Perhaps.”</p><p>– Jaskier threw something at him, and that was the end of that.</p><p>But perhaps the most understated, yet kindest, thing Geralt does for them is to alleviate their fear of meeting new people. Maybe he could sense Jaskier’s nerves or something because after a couple of awkward encounters, he now makes sure to introduce Jaskier along with their pronouns. Something like, “this my bard, Jaskier, please ignore them, or you’ll soon learn they chatter until daybreak and are prone to burst into song”, and although it’s meant to be an insult, and although they’re probably meant to be offended, it just causes a small smile to light their face. It doesn’t take a genius to work out that Geralt is using their correct pronouns in the hopes that the stranger will follow. It doesn’t work most of the time, and Geralt still gets plenty of use out of his glare when the villager willfully uses “she” or “he” – or, on one memorable occasion that resulted in a broken nose, “it” – to refer to Jaskier, but they appreciate his effort nonetheless. </p><p>No one’s really ever gone to such lengths to include them before, and if it makes their chest warm and their stomach flutter, then it’s just because it’s nice to hear the correct pronouns. It’s got nothing to do with Geralt’s kind, understated, consideration, and the way he looks at Jaskier afterwards – all open and soft – with a shy smile. The way it feels like looking straight into the sun…</p><p>It’s got nothing to do with that at all. <em>Nope</em>.</p><p>-</p><p>It’s been a fortnight of adrenaline-filled battles, and lingering looks, and naked bathing in the early light of dawn, and Jaskier is <em>horny</em>. They’re not sure if they’ve gone two weeks without a dick in their mouth since the start of their studies. It’s only been two weeks, with an entire <em>ten</em> to go. If Jaskier had a dick, it would be at dire risk of falling off from disuse. </p><p>They know they’re being ridiculous, but being around Geralt constantly with his fearsome heroics, and his gentle kindness, and the sheer attraction that falls in between, makes Jaskier very, very aware that they’re not having sex. </p><p>They probably ought to have drafted up some sort of system before they set off on the Path. An equivalent to the stocking on the doorknob that they had instigated with Valda after one rather embarrassing incident that is best forgotten. A way for Geralt to signal “we’re reasonably safe, now would be a great time to sneak off into the woods and jerk off if you needed the release” or “there’s a brothel in this town if you have needs and I’ll conveniently be away gathering a contract if you do” but they didn’t have the foresight to arrange for such a thing and now Jaskier cannot find a single casual way to bring it up. </p><p>One evening, two weeks in, Jaskier tried sneaking off to take care of things, but Geralt called out before they could get more than three paces from the fire, “You’re going the wrong way,” he grunted, not looking up from his potions. “The piss pot is over by that oak tree.”</p><p>“Right,” Jaskier said, and numbly followed his direction despite not needing the lavatory at all.</p><p>Not one to give up, Jaskier tried again in the dead of night, this time wise enough to set off in the right direction  – “Be quick,” Geralt grunted between snores, “I heard a wolf pack about.”</p><p>Excellent. A wank with a side of mauling. Not exactly the solitude they were after. “Ah,” they say, retreating back into their bedroll, “In that case, maybe I’ll just wait ‘til morning.” </p><p>The next night, they’re stargazing – or, more accurately, Geralt is doing his meditative thing and Jaskier is attempting to remember the second semester of astronomy class – when Jaskier drums up the courage to ask about <em>arrangements</em>. They’re just about to broach the topic when Geralt throws them off completely by mentioning the alderman in the last village. It says something about how sex-driven their mind is at present because Jaskier immediately pictures the fifty-something, balding, drably-dressed alderman naked and… no, thank you. He decides to play it safe and wait for Geralt to elaborate, and when he does, Jaskier is floored. The simple question of “Do you want that?” sends them spiralling into an existential crisis. </p><p>
  <em>Do I want to be considered a man? </em>
</p><p>This is what Geralt is attempting to ask in that taciturn way of his. He’s so awkward about it, Jaskier wonders how long he’s been turning this over in his mind. Knowing Geralt, he’s probably been attempting to formulate these words since the first encounter.</p><p>Their heart grows all warm and fluttery again, and they shut that nonsense down.</p><p>This is not a time to be hopelessly falling in love with a Witcher. This is a time to be considering… this. Jaskier starts humming the ‘Doppler’s Disguise’ before they’re even cognisant of it, but Geralt seems to read into it what he needs to.</p><p>“You can use ‘he’ if you like,” Jaskier surmises, because it’s easier for Geralt to confirm people’s assumptions rather than rail against them; there’s likely to be a lot less violence this way. “When we’re in public, when it comes up... I don’t mind.”</p><p><em>I don’t mind.</em> </p><p>Jaskier hears the words reflected back to them. It’s not really an answer. Jaskier’s aware that it’s not really an answer, but it’s all they have right now. Right now, Jaskier doesn’t care what they’re called, as long as it’s not <em>Julia</em>. </p><p>For the first time in a week, Jaskier isn’t lying awake trying to will away their arousal; they’re lying awake, hearing those damn words echoed back to them.</p><p>
  <em>I don’t mind. </em>
</p><p>What did that even <em>mean</em>? </p><p>-</p><p>Geralt’s done a great job of dampening Jaskier’s arousal because now the whole gender clusterfuck is all they can think about. They’ll be picking herbs, or tuning their lute, or brushing down Roach, and suddenly be ambushed with the thought “am I man?” It’s very inconvenient. This summer was meant to be about wild adventures, and pining after Geralt, and wanking sad and alone in their bedroll. (It’s now week three and still Jaskier has not worked out how to have a little Private Time). Jaskier is very busy writing the next musical masterpiece, with the intention to have an entirely new set to perform when Geralt finally gives into Jaskier’s pestering to stay at a tavern, and they do not have time to be having yet another gender identity crisis. They’ve had at least five already, thanks, and they’re not a big fan. Stupid Geralt and his stupid, caring, idiot ways – </p><p>“Ooooh Thornford,” Jaskier exclaims, as they pass a sign, extremely happy to be pulled from their circling thoughts. “Are we stopping? Can we stay? I know how you love baths, Geralt. What if we found a nice bathhouse? Take a couple of hours out from our busy schedule and –”</p><p>“We’re not staying,” Geralt grunts. “I heard word of a contract on a werewolf in these parts. I’ll check the noticeboard. You should gather whatever supplies you need from the inn,” he adds. “There’s no alchemist but Tom is normally well stocked, he might have whatever you need.”</p><p>“Maybe what I <em>need</em> is a nice warm bath, a bowl of good soup, and an audience of unsuspecting patrons to charm with my musical talents –” </p><p>Jaskier falls short at Geralt’s raised eyebrow. </p><p>“Fine,” they concede, “I suppose I’ll make do with a bottle of wine. But it better be Fiorano!” he shouts at Geralt’s retreating figure. </p><p>Jaskier looks across to Roach, also abandoned in favour of a contract, and shakes their head in sympathy. “Oh well, at least I still have you, my equine friend,” they say, with a pat on her flank which she immediately shakes off with a disgusted snort and stamp of her hooves. “Fine, fine,” Jaskier says with their hands raised in defense, “I can take a hint. I’ll go find the inn.”</p><p>The inn, as it turns out, is the liveliest place in the village, and much to Jaskier’s joy, appears to be hosting some sort of musical contest. There are so many musicians waltzing in and out of the place with their assorted instruments that for a minute Jaskier feels right at home; enough that they experience a tender pang of homesickness. They never meant to get attached to the city of Oxenfurt – had never viewed the small town as more than a stop on their way to grandeur – but its historic charm has wormed its way under their skin. Time makes the heart grow fonder, after all, and while traipsing around the squalor of Velen, the majesty of Oxenfurt has never seemed so alluring. They have thought of it often in their travels, and now, they have been handily presented with a fine opportunity to perform <a href="https://vands38.tumblr.com/post/624996628848345088/from-the-fic-return-to-oxenfurt-by-vands88-the">the very song</a> about this predicament.</p><p>Eager, Jaskier elbows their way through the crowd to get to the bar. There is some mediocre bard on stage that immediately needs to be trounced and Jaskier has never been very patient. “Hello, good sir?” Jaskier shouts down the bar, until the bartender – presumably this “Tom” – makes his way towards them. </p><p>“What can I do for you, uh…?” he pauses. </p><p>Jaskier hates the awkward pauses. </p><p>“‘Sir,’” they fill in before they can think too much of it. “Yes, I’d like to perform in this wonderful musical event you have going on here.”</p><p>Tom frowns. “Sorry to inform you, sir –” </p><p>Huh. <em>Sir</em>. It doesn’t sound all that bad.</p><p>“– but the roster is full, most of these folk signed up last week, you see –”</p><p>Jaskier ‘accidentally’ loses a gemstone across the bar.</p><p>“– but I’m sure we can make allowances,” Tom quickly amends, pocketing the gem. </p><p>“Excellent. I’d like to play next please.”</p><p>Tom opens his mouth to protest, but before he can, Jaskier adds, “And then I’d like two of your best meals, and a bottle of your best red,” and gives him more than enough coin to cover the expense.</p><p>Tom, the wise man that he is, accepts the bribe, and pulls out the roster making some adjustments with a scratch of his quill. “Absolutely, sir, yes indeed, you will be next. How would you like to be addressed?”</p><p>The name gets stuck on their tongue. The only time they have performed as a man is dressed as Dandelion, but what had they said to Geralt the other night? <em>Dandelion is a persona. I don’t… I don’t want to be a persona right now. I want to be me.</em></p><p>“Jaskier,” he says, confidently. “Jaskier of Oxenfurt.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>just to clarify: we're not gonna be switching straight into he/him pronouns full time just yet, but you will see them occurring more often as Jaskier tries them on for size</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Chapter 17</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Geralt meditates in a futile attempt to dislodge the peculiar combination of excitement and anxiety churning in his stomach. He identifies the curious sensation as nerves, even though the Witcher Trials were meant to rid him of such inconvenient emotions.  </p><p>He breathes out – listening to the rustle of leaves, the babble of the stream, the hoot of a distant owl, Jaskier’s heartbeat slow and steady with sleep – and breathes in – smelling the sickly sweet tree sap, the familiar scent of Roach, and Jaskier… </p><p><em>Jaskier</em>.</p><p>Geralt’s heart starts pounding and he sighs in resignation as the thought of his companion distracts him from his meditation yet again. Jaskier has been on his mind constantly, but their presence has only become more pronounced the closer they come to their destination. Now Geralt is mere hours away from revealing his plans, it seems he can’t shake thoughts of Jaskier at all. </p><p>Geralt loosens his limbs and opens his eyes, giving into his apparent restlessness. He stretches and looks to the night sky, just beginning to lighten with dawn. He calculates that it must be an hour or so until sunrise. They ought to leave soon in any case. </p><p>He looks over to the sleeping form of Jaskier across their makeshift campsite. The bard is sprawled out across their bedroll, limbs flailing in every direction, seemingly just as dramatic in sleep as they are in the waking realm. He smiles at the sight before he’s even cognisant of it. Geralt spends the days trying to suppress these natural reactions to Jaskier’s presence but in the early morning, while Jaskier is still ignorant of the world, he can take his fill without worry. It’s a warm night tonight, and the blanket is folded beneath Jaskier’s head instead of covering their delicate frame. Although, he notes with a frown, their frame is a lot less delicate than it used to be. </p><p>A wave of guilt crashes over him. Jaskier should not be on the receiving end of his lustful stares – especially when the bard is dressed in no more than a tunic that only just covers the curve of their behind – but Geralt also feels a great deal of responsibility for the sight itself. </p><p>Jaskier’s body has only changed so significantly due to the brutal work of being his companion. It has only been a month but already all their soft curves seem to have vanished. Their legs are thick and strong from walking through difficult terrain, their arms are bulky with muscle from the monster carcasses they haul onto Roach’s back, and their lean stomach and sharp cheekbones are a stark reminder of their scant diet of late. </p><p>He encourages Jaskier to ride Roach whenever he can, but the bard is a stubborn fool who “refuses to be pandered to, like some landed gentry” and insists on walking beside him most of the time. Jaskier’s refusal to acknowledge their own struggle is even more reason why Geralt should have heeded their other requests. Jaskier has asked for breaks, and asked for taverns, and asked for long and indulgent baths. Instead, Geralt has kept pace, and camped in the wilderness, and bathed in the river, and even arranged a mage’s portal to expedite their journey. He didn’t want to loiter in the towns. He didn’t want Jaskier to see how poorly the villagers regard him, and experience for themself how narrow-minded these folk can be. (Although, sadly, he suspects that Jaskier has weathered much of this despicable treatment even from their brief interactions). But he also didn’t want Jaskier to notice that he can’t afford the taverns, and the sweet cakes, and the extravagant bathhouses that Jaskier requests. And, after all, they also had a schedule to keep. </p><p>Still. Perhaps he ought to have been more kind. </p><p>He can only hope that the surprise he has in mind goes some way to rectify his wrongs. </p><p>There it is again: the flutter of nerves in the pit of his stomach.</p><p>He shakes it off, and strides towards Jaskier, determined to see that bright smile that has dimmed in recent weeks. </p><p>*</p><p>“Not that I don’t appreciate being dragged out of bed at the crack of dawn,” Jaskier says, as they try to keep pace with Geralt, who is striding towards the horizon as if some great purpose lies beyond it, “but I do wish you would tell me where we’re going.”</p><p>“You’ll see soon enough,” Geralt says steadily, as the land before them begins to incline. </p><p>The cryptic evasions Geralt has been practising of late have been bad enough but Jaskier is hungry, and tired, and now, apparently, being forced to walk up a veritable <em>mountain</em>. Don’t get them wrong – this last month has been <em>excellent</em> for their physique – but there is still a marked difference between a regular day at Geralt’s side (inspirational, fascinating, invigorating) and climbing a steep incline before breakfast. For a moment, they consider staying put. They could pout, and cross their arms, and stamp their feet, like a toddler being denied attention, but Geralt has already proved that he is immune to such tactics. Jaskier sighs, and dutifully follows.</p><p>Geralt, at least, is kind enough to slow his pace as Jaskier struggles up the hill. “I’m telling you now,” Jaskier wheezes, “that whatever <em>wonderful</em> surprise you think you have in store for me will <em>not</em> make up for the early wake-up call. No amount of pretty flowers, or cheering crowds, or free ale, or even angelic choruses sent from nirvana itself could possibly make me forgive you for –” </p><p>Jaskier’s rant is brought to a swift and sudden end when they finally crest the rise and see the sheer beauty laid before them. A lush, verdant, landscape as far as the eye can see, bathed in the warm light of sunrise. Sparkling rivers, charming terracotta rooftops, countless lines of vineyards, and a crystal blue ocean in the distance. And in the centre of it all, the most beautiful historic town, complete with a majestic castle in its midsts. It’s picture perfect. Jaskier <em>knows</em> it’s picture perfect because it’s near the exact same picture as the etching in their history textbook – </p><p>“That’s Beauclair,” they say, numb with shock. “We’re in…” Jaskier inhales, stuttering with excitement. “Geralt,” they breathe in awe, “Did you…? Are we in...? Is that <em>Toussaint</em>?”</p><p>There is a softest smile on Geralt’s face as he grunts his reply. “You said you always wanted to see it.”</p><p>Jaskier’s traitorous heart flutters. Oh, they swore they wouldn’t give into this nonsense while travelling with Geralt. Jaskier was going to be good, and suppress the instinct to look at him with that sappy expression that they’re no doubt displaying this very instance but… Geralt <em>remembered</em>. Yes, Jaskier has always wanted to see the city of love, and the rolling hills of the luscious Duchy, and taste Fiorano straight from the vineyard but… they mentioned it once, drunkenly, at the festival back at Oxenfurt and Geralt… remembered? Oh. Their heart will never recover from this. </p><p>“I forgive you,” Jaskier whispers, too shocked by the stunning view to express any other sentiment.</p><p>Geralt chuckles, and busies himself with Roach’s reins. “I hoped you might,” he replies, just as softly. “I am sorry our pace has been so relentless this last month, and our luxuries few, but I wanted to arrive before the festival commenced. We ought to be able to stay here for a few days at least. Weeks, if we’re lucky. It’s a wealthy township, after all, there’s normally good coin to be had.”</p><p>“Festival…” Jaskier repeats the word numbly, still transfixed by the sheer beauty before them, until the words finally register and they tear their eyes away from the vista. “Festival?!” they exclaim, tugging on Geralt’s arm in excitement. “<em>Geralt</em>, it’s mid-July. That means it’s the legendary Beauclair Music and Poetry festival.”</p><p>“I’m aware.”</p><p>“Geralt!” they exclaim harriedly, jostling Geralt when he’s not being nearly enthusiastic enough. “The Beauclair Festival! Do you know how important this is? This is the festival where Masters are made out of minstrels! The infamous tournament in which Yorick trounced Julius – the undefeated Master Bard of the Continent for <em>thirteen years</em>. And we’re <em>staying</em>?! Say you mean it, oh, please, Geralt, say that I can perform amongst these historic crowds –”</p><p>*</p><p>Geralt busies himself with Roach to hide his smitten expression at the bard’s enthusiastic rambling. Jaskier becomes so much brighter when they are excited. Geralt can only watch with fondness as they elucidate on all the wonders of Toussaint with a dopey grin and ever-expressive movements. </p><p>“We ought to be able to afford a night at a decent tavern before the festival opens,” Geralt reassures Jaskier. “I know you need your beauty sleep.” </p><p>It’s intended as a joke, but the line lands just as flatly as he delivered it. It is safer to jest than admit the truth of it, which is not “I know you need your beauty sleep” but “I know <em>you</em>” – I know you value your trade well enough to only perform after adequate rest, I know you detest the smell of the swamp from the way your nose wrinkles at the folded blanket beneath your head, I know you need a warm bath and fresh bread and the finest wines in order to feel at home. “Beauty sleep” is the least of what Jaskier needs, but admitting the rest of it seems a little too intimate for a travel companion to mention. </p><p>“Pffft,” Jaskier teases, nudging Geralt with their elbow. “I’ll have you know that my stunning beauty is entirely natural, no sleep needed, but I <em>am</em> very excited to test my new compositions on an appreciative audience – not that you’re not appreciative!” Jaskier amends hastily.</p><p>Geralt raises his eyebrow in mock offense. He’s aware that most of his comments about Jaskier’s compositions relate to the monsters involved, and not so much about the music itself. It can’t be very useful to the bard.</p><p>“I value your very wise – and very succinct – contributions,” Jaskier assures emphatically, “But I also –”</p><p>“I know,” Geralt intervenes before Jaskier can dig themself further into this hole. “You need to test new songs on a new crowd. The drunker, the better.”</p><p>“So you <em>do</em> listen!” Jaskier exclaims with a broad smile, before turning back to the verdant vista laid before them. </p><p>Pathetically, Geralt listens to a great many things Jaskier says, and seems to have picked up the annoying habit of committing them to memory. Jaskier seems to invade his thoughts even when the bard isn’t with him – he’ll be on a hunt and think “oh, that’s Jaskier’s favourite flower” or negotiating a contract when he thinks “there’s a philosopher with the same name as this woodcutter, Jaskier mentioned it once, I wonder if they’re related… didn’t they say the philosopher had particularly large ears? Yes, that’s why he couldn’t fit in the barrel like his comrade –” and then wonders why on earth he bothered to memorise the bard’s ramblings about philosophy. </p><p>Consequently, the fact that he apparently memorised Jaskier’s complaint about performances word for word does not surprise him. It <em>does</em> embarrass him though. He ought to be less transparent in his desires. </p><p>“It’s just… so beautiful,” Jaskier breaths, taking in the view.</p><p>“Hmm,” he agrees, his eyes lingering on the bard’s face as they admire the lands below. The early morning sun renders their skin golden, and their sun-kissed hair is lifted in the breeze, exuding their natural scent across the hilltop towards Geralt. Their smile is wide, and their eyes are sparkling with mirth in that way that Geralt has grown so fond of. At the sight of Jaskier’s happiness, the last fluttering of nerves fade away. </p><p>He is so lost in the view, that he startles at the slight brush of hands between them. The mere touch ignites a fire inside him. </p><p>Geralt never knew a month could stretch so long, but a month in Jaskier’s presence without the allowance of intimacies has been near torturous. Jaskier is so expressive and friendly and open-hearted that they often leave a hand on their shoulder when passing, or poke and jostle when needling him, or even, last week under the stars when their hands had entwined… but it was all under the guise of camaraderie. Jaskier has not initiated anything more, and Geralt has tried to be appreciative – not disappointed – by that fact. Jaskier respects Geralt enough to accept his boundaries, and in the absence of intimacies, they have built something else between them that Geralt is just as fond of. It’s wonderful. But these absent, friendly touches – a ghost of what they shared before – make Geralt feel more unsteady by the day.  </p><p>“Thank you,” Jaskier whispers, their eyes wide and earnest as they look into Geralt’s. Even their eyes are painted golden with the sunrise. It’s a cruel trick of nature that makes Geralt’s heart ache at the sight.</p><p>Geralt tenses, his breath caught, when Jaskier’s fingers tighten in his.</p><p>“Thank you for bringing me here.”</p><p>Geralt wrenches his eyes away from the devastating sight of Jaskier, rendered warm and delicate in the soft light, and tries to marshal his pounding heart back in line as he stares numbly at the horizon. It would be so easy to give into his desires, to turn around, and take Jaskier’s sun-blushed cheeks in his hands and <em>kiss</em> them – to feel those soft lips moving against his, savour the little sigh of ecstasy released from their parted mouth, the devilish curl of their tongue, their nimble fingers tangling in his hair… </p><p>Geralt clears his throat, utterly confounded by the intense desperation that suddenly seized his chest at the thought of a mere kiss. </p><p>“You’re welcome,” he manages to reply, though his voice is cracked and gravelly with the weight of suppressed desire. “I wanted to…” <em>make you happy</em>. He trails off, the words once again too intimate to voice. “You deserve…” Geralt shakes his head and clears his throat, embarrassed by his ineptitude to convey the correct meaning of his thoughts without also alluding to his unwelcome sentiment. “I thought you might like it,” he concludes uneasily, eyes skittering across the horizon.  </p><p>Jaskier looks across at him again, but Geralt is too cowardly to look back. “I do,” they say, with another heartbreaking squeeze of fingers. “I really do.” </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Chapter 18</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It becomes very hard not to kiss Geralt when they arrive at Toussaint. For fuck’s sake, it’s the city of <em>love</em>, during <em>a music and</em> <em>poetry</em> festival. This historic city has to be the most romantic place on the Continent right now! How is Jaskier meant to resist Geralt’s little furrowed brow when he’s trying to parse Skelliger poetry? Or his rosy cheeks when he’s drinking wine in the sunshine? How, in fuck, is Jaskier meant to stand on a stage tomorrow and sing love songs about Geralt without swooning at his feet?</p><p>Oh, this was going to be torture.</p><p>Wonderful, brilliant torture.</p><p>*</p><p>Geralt watches with fond amusement as Jaskier skips through the streets, marvelling at the clothes and the architecture and even the drainpipes, as they take in the city. Geralt hums noncommittally at every observation, and hopes Jaskier doesn’t notice that he’s looking at the wonders of his companion rather than the city itself.</p><p>When the streets of houses eventually give way to merchants and taverns, Geralt slows his pace, examining each building for possible accommodation. It’s a popular time of year in Toussaint, and even if the taverns have any spare rooms this close to the festival, they certainly won’t be renting them to a Witcher for their standard fee.</p><p>Jaskier must see his frown as they pass the first tavern because their hand covers his, and then they’re smiling that damn smile of theirs and volunteering to put their charm to good use. Geralt stays outside with Roach, hood drawn, as Jaskier hops between various establishments in search of accommodation.</p><p>Finally, at the third tavern, Jaskier emerges with a skip in their step and a key swinging from their hands. “Victory!” they declare, loud enough to draw a few unsavory glares.</p><p>Geralt smiles and catches the key with his spare hand. He is ever so fond of Jaskier’s dramatics, even if it does sometimes draw unnecessary attention. “Stables?”</p><p>“Of course!” Jaskier gasps, with a hand on their chest, as if offended by the idea that they could possibly forget Roach. It’s really rather endearing how well the two of them seem to have gotten along. “She’ll likely have more room than us though,” they add with a wrinkled nose.</p><p>Geralt pauses in his absent petting of Roach to look across at Jaskier with a quizzical brow.</p><p>“Single room,” they explain with a shrug, before moving round to unload their belongings.</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt says, trying not to think through the ramifications of that decision. He’ll sleep on the floor, it’s fine. “Better than nothing.”</p><p>“That’s what I said!” they say, throwing their hands in the air in exasperation.</p><p>From this familiar gesture, Geralt interprets that Jaskier must have had some altercation with the owner. Hopefully nothing that requires a relocation. Geralt does his best to hide his concern under the guise of tending to Roach. “Any trouble?” he asks between glances.</p><p>“Oh, no more than usual,” Jaskier says with a shrug, which means <em>yes</em>, which means <em>some ignorant fool caused offense but please don’t start another fist fight over it. </em></p><p>Geralt sighs, and lets them have it. “Come, let’s stable Roach, then we can get you cleaned up.”</p><p>*</p><p>The bathhouse is glorious. It’s more than glorious. The feeling of warm water and the scent of floral soap, the bliss of suds in their hair and the joy of month-old grime slipping away, can only truly be described as <em>divine</em>.</p><p>Jaskier had been nervous coming to the public bathhouse but Toussaint, in all her wisdom, had the forethought to provide private baths at a little extra charge. Jaskier doesn’t know what they would do otherwise – walking into the ladies’ pool dressed as a man, or walking into the gentlemen’s pool with their current anatomy would certainly cause a stir – it’s not that it’s against the rules, or even unheard of given the popularity of Hart Root Tea in this beautifully accepting city, but Jaskier would have to bear the weight of their stares and their whispers, and they are far too exhausted to carry such burdens in their current state.</p><p>As it is, the only thing that would make this divine experience any more divine would be if Geralt had accepted their invitation to join.</p><p>Jaskier <em>knows</em> he likes baths, and must be just as desperate for a visit to the most architecturally exquisite bathhouse on the Continent as Jaskier is, but still, he declined. A little wheedling assured that he would visit some time later (Jaskier’s exact words may have been “I refuse to share my room with a man who looks so bedraggled – I have a reputation to uphold, Geralt!”) but still Geralt preferred to trudge the streets in search of a contract, than share a bath with his friend.</p><p>Jaskier banishes thoughts of Geralt from their mind – he is a good man, and therefore must have had his reasons for declining Jaskier’s company, no matter how much the rejection stings. Instead, Jaskier relaxes into the private pool, mentally rehearsing the set for tonight. Lucille, the barkeep, offered Jaskier performance space that night, and it ought to serve as a good warm-up before the festival commences; a way to test the new songs they’ve been composing on the road and select the ones best suited to competition.</p><p>Jaskier begins to hum as they contemplate the most effective song order, and melts further into the warm embrace of the pool.</p><p>It’s not long before the sweet scents carry with them more thoughts of Geralt, and the ludicrous idea that perhaps he did not deign to join because he fears breaking that precious rule of his. Perhaps this bathhouse would remind him a little too much of the one they shared back in Oxenfurt...</p><p>It’s a nice fantasy, to believe that Geralt is finding their vow of abstinence just as difficult to maintain as Jaskier. Following this titillating thought, Jaskier wonders what would have happened if Geralt had accepted their invitation… the two of them secluded in this large private pool, eyes locked, interest growing, and not a shred of clothing between them…</p><p>Jaskier’s hand snakes beneath the waterline and finally, after a month of frustration, brings themself to release.</p><p>*</p><p>Geralt stares at the noticeboard and tries to re-read the contract on archespores for the dozenth time. <em>Fields west of Castel Ravello Vineyard...</em></p><p>It’s no good. The words don’t penetrate when he has others circling in his head. As soon as they had stabled Roach, Jaskier had hurriedly unpacked their own belongings in the tavern, and was babbling about the bathhouse that he’d read about on some flyer or another – “Ooooh, it says here that they have private pools, and pre-soak water fountains, and scented salts” – and then came the devastating implication that they would be enjoying it <em>together</em>. Jaskier hadn’t even asked, exactly, they’d just said, “Let’s go! If we split the price of a private pool it’ll be cheaper than –”</p><p>“Contract,” Geralt had managed to grunt. “Noticeboards. I should go. Check noticeboards.”</p><p>Geralt feels heat rise in his cheeks at the memory and glares at the damn noticeboard before him. He was a coward. Jaskier had invited him so casually, as if the bathhouse was no more intimate than the rivers and lakes and oceans they have shared this last month. But it <em>was</em>, if only for the fact that it was safely sequestered behind four walls. How is a bathhouse in Toussaint different from a bathhouse in Oxenfurt? It’s not. Geralt’s rule of abstinence doesn’t hold behind walls, and Jaskier would have realised this as soon as they were alone, and naked, and perfectly able to –</p><p><em>Fuck</em>.</p><p>Geralt rips the damn contract from the noticeboard.</p><p>Jaskier may have already realised. Their invitation to the bathhouse may have been a ruse to engage in carnal activities. But what if it wasn’t? What if Jaskier was perfectly content with their friendship and the thought returning to their previous intimacies hadn’t even crossed their mind? What if they now realise, through Geralt’s clumsy refusal, that Geralt is still hopelessly attracted to them, and they feel pressured to –</p><p><em>Fuck</em>.</p><p>They never should have come here.</p><p>But…</p><p>Hadn’t Geralt’s subconscious been clamouring for an excuse to get close to Jaskier again? Might coming here not have been a consequence of that suppressed desire? Even a little?</p><p>Perhaps Jaskier is just as eager to break their rule. Perhaps they would welcome his advances.</p><p>Geralt glares at the empty noticeboard in front of him, horny and frustrated, and tries not to think about Jaskier’s sud-soft skin and sweet smelling perfumes; tries not to wonder if that invitation had been an <em>invitation</em>, and if it were, what he would have done.</p><p>*</p><p>Jaskier feels better than they have in weeks – clean, refreshed, and relieved of certain burdens – and strides into the organiser’s tent with the confidence they will need to win. The spirit of competition is alive and well and the entire city seems energised by it.</p><p>Upon returning to their rooms, Jaskier sits at the desk and pens a letter to Valda –</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>My dearest Valdoria, the Everlasting Pinnacle of Ineptitude, </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>I can only apologise that my fine words, once again, will distract you so utterly from your dreary pursuits, but I have some marvellous news to depart. </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>My wondrous companion has spirited me away to the city of love! I am performing in the Beauclair Music &amp; Poetry Festival for the next fortnight and am eager to share my new compositions with these historic crowds. No doubt they shall wonder and delight at my talents!</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>(Even if, I admit, they were foolish enough to cast me in the measly Student category. Pah! These fledgling infants will hold no challenge for one Jaskier of Oxenfurt! Even the tawdry rhymes you deem ‘compositions’ would surely surpass whatever tosh these children are undoubtedly peddling!) </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>You may write to me at Sly Fox Tavern if you wish to exercise your mind a little. Those trite romances of yours (the fictional kind, naturally) cannot possibly stimulate you as much as you claim. It would be much more stimulating for the both of us, I fear, if you were here with me. At least then I might have some supposed ‘competition’. </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Your superior by all accounts,</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Jas </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Jaskier folds the letter with smug satisfaction, pleased that they have masterfully walked the line of viciously insulting and sweetly endearing. The competition really will feel strange without Valda. Perhaps they can sneak her out of Cidaris for the festival next year. From the letters they have received so far, Valda is not having a pleasant summer at all. She is adept at hiding her emotion between insults and academics but Jaskier is even more adept at translating such language. From Valda’s mention of various parties and gentlemen callers, and her clever evasion of anything regarding her family, Jaskier is under the impression that her parents are parading her before various men of the court, eagerly awaiting the highest bidder.</p><p>Jaskier doesn’t envy her. That would undoubtedly be their summer if they went home, which is precisely why they were never planning on doing so. Sometimes they wonder if their parents have heard of their new appearance and pastimes all the way over in Lettenhove. Most of the time, Jaskier knows better than to consider this at all.</p><p>Jaskier hands the letter to the barkeep and picks up their lute. It may be mere children they will be pitted against tomorrow, but they still want to do Oxenfurt proud. They need to ensure cheers during<em> Drink Your Sorrows</em> and tears during <em>Doppler’s Disguise </em>and, most importantly, coin during <em>Toss A Coin</em>.</p><p>Jaskier had penned <em>Toss A Coin To Your Witcher</em> after he saw first-hand how poorly the local folk treated their good monster hunter. It was after their first adventure together (fighting a forktail in northern Temeria) that Geralt had hauled the carcass back to the alderman, only to have him sneer at Geralt’s bloody appearance and offer only half the coin he had promised.</p><p>Back in Oxenfurt, Jaskier had promised Geralt that they would earn him his well-deserved coin but witnessing his plight first-hand has turned their earnest vow into their very <em>raison-d'etre</em>. Geralt deserves to be treated as an equal; to be treated with <em>respect</em>, and Jaskier won’t rest until every man on the Continent values Witchers as much as they ought. Jaskier can’t help Geralt with the monsters, or the gore, or really any of the practicalities of being on the road, but Jaskier knows how to sway an audience, and they’re determined to change the people’s perception of Geralt even if it takes their entire lifetime to do so.</p><p>Jaskier would give this kind-hearted man the world if they could, but all they have is their love and their song, and as they practise song after song about his heroics and his heart, Jaskier can only hope that it will be enough to sway the people of Beauclair.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Chapter 19</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this chapter features two songs that you already know -- just with amended lyrics. I have re-written <em>Toss A Coin</em> to fit oxenfurt!verse and you can read the lyrics over <a href="https://docs.google.com/document/d/1vYPxc0jj75xUzmDwUrCFBwBMOaKdfNMkLRJY9cq41js/edit?usp=sharing">here</a> if you like.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Geralt leaves the communal baths feeling refreshed but no less overwhelmed about the possibility of Jaskier’s desires. Geralt had requested chastity on the road under the guise of safety, but in truth he was only trying to protect his heart from an entire summer of intimacy with the enchanting bard.</p><p>Only now does he realise that this arbitrary boundary he had established was futile. Jaskier has already burrowed deep inside him, regardless of whether or not they are intimate. Even if Jaskier desires him no longer, even if they remain no more than friends, it will still shape Geralt irreparably when Jaskier inevitably leaves.</p><p>-</p><p>When Geralt returns to the tavern, he spies Jaskier leaning against the staircase, tuning his lute with an intense concentration that Geralt cannot help but find endearing. ‘He’ is definitely the pronoun that springs to mind when Geralt glimpses his bard tonight – Jaskier is dressed in his fine navy blue doublet with red trim, his chest is flat, and his chin juts out with an air of masculine confidence.</p><p>Geralt smiles indulgently at the sight; his open affection hidden by the long shadows cast by a dozen candles. Jaskier looks intensely beautiful in the soft candlelight, and Geralt knows that if Jaskier made another candid invitation to resume their intimacies then Geralt would happily accept.</p><p>Geralt grunts a greeting and Jaskier is absorbed enough in his work to actually startle at the sound. “Oh! Geralt! Hello!” he says cheerily, though his bright tone is offset by the nervous fidgeting of fingers. “I was wondering if you’d be back in time – not that you’re under any obligation to watch my performance, of course, I imagine there must be countless things you must see to in a city as large and as diverting as Beauclair –”</p><p>“I’m here,” Geralt reassures before Jaskier’s nerves get the better of him. “If that’s okay? I’d like to watch.”</p><p>Jaskier looks at once both thrilled and terrified and Geralt can only blink in confusion as he responds affirmatively with the same baffling duality. “Yes, excellent, please do. I imagine you’ve got a few more minutes if there’s anything you need to see to.”</p><p>Geralt nods in agreement, and glances around at the gathering patrons and the flautist currently entertaining them on the makeshift stage. “Yes. I’ll store my armour and weapons, then order some food –”</p><p>“Allow me,” Jaskier offers with a friendly hand on his arm. “The least I can do is order you supper if you are to suffer through yet another bardic performance on my behalf. I know you do not care for music.”</p><p><em>I care for you</em>, Geralt’s traitorous mind whispers. “It is no hardship,” he reassures. Listening to music has never been a particular interest of his but watching Jaskier perform is rapidly becoming his most shameful yet most enjoyable pastime. “But I will accept your offer, if you insist.”</p><p>“I insist,” Jaskier says, squeezing his arm before withdrawing. “Now, change into something a little less intimidating and I’ll order us the best meal on the menu.”</p><p>As Geralt changes into a loose shirt, he wonders just how evident his current financial situation is that Jaskier volunteers to cover not only their lodgings, but their food as well. Perhaps if Jaskier’s intentions to change his reputation come to fruition, Geralt can repay the favour one day. He would like to surprise Jaskier with his favourite sweet bread, or accompany him to the tailors when he yearns for some new extravagant doublet, or even buy a replacement chanterelle the next time it breaks. Jaskier insists that Geralt’s company is all he requires in return for his service as his barker and companion, but sometimes Geralt lies awake at night wondering how he can best show his appreciation while he lacks the finances to buy Jaskier the fineries – or even the basic amenities – that he deserves.</p><p>For now, all he can offer Jaskier is his silent support as he single-handedly attempts to mend his sullied reputation.</p><p>*</p><p>Jaskier toys nervously with the strings, plucking various melodies to calm his mind. This performance ought to be no different to the other drunken crowds he has entertained this summer, but the presence of one particular person makes him nervous.</p><p>Jaskier has managed to slip away from Geralt a handful of times now to squeeze in a performance or two while the hardworking Witcher tracks down contracts, and beasts, and payment… but this time, Geralt will be front and centre.</p><p>Geralt must have caught snippets of his music while composing and practising but Jaskier can never tell how much he’s truly listening as he’ll often be preoccupied by some task or another. Jaskier promised to fix Geralt’s reputation and he had promised, as cocky and as sure, as the top bardic student at Oxenfurt, but signing up for the festival yesterday and seeing two hundred other names penned beside his has rather put things in perspective. Jaskier is good, but is he <em>that</em> good? Can he really demolish a decade-old reputation with a silly song about forktails?</p><p>Geralt believes so. He’s never once brought the matter into question. Jaskier is still convinced that it’s a good ninety percent of the reason why Geralt let him tag along for the summer in the first place – he wants to earn coin again, and Jaskier’s music is the solution.</p><p>He might want more. Jaskier sometimes deludes himself that he wants more. Jaskier is ready to fall into bed with Geralt again at the slightest indication that it would be welcome, but it’s entirely possible that any opportunity of rekindling their intimacies is about to be blown to smithereens by his lackluster performance. What if, after all that Jaskier promised, he can’t charm the crowds? What if Geralt comes down to watch Jaskier turn the tide, only to have the tide turned on them? What if the two of them are chased out of the Sly Fox, and out of Beauclair entirely? He’s seen how much it hurts Geralt when villagers jeer, when the whisper of ‘The Butcher’ follows his footsteps, and the thought that Jaskier might personally be responsible for causing that little furrow on Geralt’s brow fills him with dread.</p><p>But he has to try. He promised Geralt that he would try. And Jaskier is nothing but a good showman; if he does his job well then neither his audience, nor Geralt himself, will recognise that he’s nervous at all.</p><p>*</p><p>True to his word, there is a bowl of boeuf bourguignon waiting for Geralt in the most secluded corner of the tavern. Normally, indeed, this is where he would prefer to sit but unfortunately it has a very limited view of the stage, and Geralt wants to be in Jaskier’s eyeline so he knows that he is appreciative of his efforts. Geralt relocates to a more central table just as the last performer is stepping off stage and Jaskier takes his place, standing proudly before these dozen or so patrons, as if their uneducated opinion is just as important as the judges the next morn. Geralt supposes that as much as Jaskier yearns to be adorned with placements and prizes, ultimately, it is the opinions of these regular folk that he strives after the most.</p><p>The change between Jaskier his companion and Jaskier the performer is so profound that the differences are almost impossible to describe. Jaskier his companion is loyal, and sweet, and flirtatious, yes, but awkwardly so. Jaskier the performer is just as youthful and energetic but has a confidence that Geralt rarely glimpses off the stage. His flirtations with the audience are cocky, not coy, and his lyrics are quick and clever, not rambling and unsure. Geralt is enraptured by both companion and performer and perhaps finds himself most intrigued by the dichotomy between them. He wonders, sometimes, if when Jaskier has found the ‘true self’ he spoke of, if the confidence he commands on stage might transfer to all aspects of his life. It does not seem like a far away fantasy when Jaskier winks at a gaggle of girls and has them giggling and swooning in response. Geralt is certain Jaskier could prompt such a reaction at any time of his choosing, if only he believed that he could. Geralt has certainly caught himself rosy-cheeked outside of Jaskier’s enchanting performances, and from the conquests that Jaskier has claimed, he must do well for himself in Oxenfurt as well, but the constant misgendering during their travels seems to have dampened his confidence to the extent that Geralt has not seen Jaskier strike up conversation even once with any possible suitors.</p><p>Selfishly, Geralt wonders if there might be another reason for Jaskier’s reluctance; if perhaps Geralt is not the only one who is blinded by this companion. But that is an idea for the realm of fantasy; he is a scarred, mutilated Witcher, and surely cannot capture Jaskier’s attention so fully.</p><p>*</p><p>Jaskier tears his eyes away from Geralt and takes one last look at the audience before him, gauging their interest and their alcohol level before affirming his plan. <em>Drink Your Sorrows </em>ought to wake these patrons out of their flute-induced slumber. He strikes a chord, and jumps on the chair, and begins belting out the fan-favourite, tankard-bashing, drunken-singing, romp of a song –</p><p>
  <em>“Went to Sly Fox Tavern early one morn…” </em>
</p><p>The reworked lyrics, tailored to this tavern and to Toussaint as a whole, seems to draw them straight in, and Jaskier grins as the adrenaline of performance begins to sing in his veins.</p><p>
  <em>“Drink ‘til your sorrows turn to joy<br/>
</em>
  <em>a Witcher’ll fix your problems for coin</em><br/>
<em>start anew! never fear again!<br/>
</em>
  <em>‘alright!’ he says, ‘let’s drink to joy!’”</em>
</p><p>Jaskier breathes a sigh of relief when the new lyrics about a Witcher don’t immediately get him thrown out onto the street. Slipping the words into the drinking song was a test of sorts, to see if this crowd will welcome the stories of Geralt, and they passed with flying colours – not a scowl to be seen as their tankards keep banging on the tables. Jaskier jumps off the chair with a dramatic twirl and grins in success as the patrons begin tossing their spare coins into his cap.</p><p>*</p><p>After his opening number, Jaskier’s exuberance fades almost imperceptibly. The hardened performer that he is, Geralt doubts that anyone else in the room picks up on his sudden nerves, but when Jaskier’s eyes flicker towards his, Geralt understands the meaning precisely: it was time to debut a new song.</p><p>Geralt nods and gives him the smallest of smiles in encouragement, and it seems to do the job, as Jaskier closes the sliver of vulnerability he had displayed, and turns back to the audience with a charming smile. “And now, my friends, I would like to tell you a tale of a fearsome dragon, and the fearless man who defeated him…”</p><p>Geralt rolls his eyes in fond exasperation. The beast was no dragon, and he is no man, but then Jaskier winks as he strikes the first chord and Geralt realises that Jaskier is playing him just as well as the audience. Jaskier once explained to him that every action on stage is choreographed in excruciating detail, and Geralt huffs a laugh into his cup of wine as he realises that Jaskier must also have planned on ruffling his feathers as part of his performance. Perhaps Jaskier believes that fondly mocking the fearsome Witcher will make him more amiable, and his song more likely to be applauded. Time will tell, as Geralt holds in breath in anticipation and Jaskier begins his tale –</p><p>
  <em>“When a humble bard, graced a ride along, with Geralt of Rivia, along came this song…”</em>
</p><p>Jaskier’s hushed introduction certainly captures the attention of the audience. Even a few curious heads turn towards him as they assess whether this ‘hero’ in Jaskier’s ballad is truly in their company. Jaskier’s moniker of the ‘White Wolf’ is certainly descriptive enough for most of these patrons whose eyes flicker between his white hair and the medallion on his chest.</p><p>Geralt wants to remain openly supportive of Jaskier but old habits cause him to retreat further into the shadows as Jaskier recounts the exaggerated tale of his encounter with the forktail. Jaskier is bold and unapologetic in his demand for the villagers to pay Witchers their due, and Geralt winces, lying in wait for these patrons to start rebelling as Jaskier slips into the chorus –</p><p>
  <em>“Toss a coin to your Witcher, oh valley of plenty…”</em>
</p><p>But, then, something miraculous happens.</p><p>The patrons do not jeer at the refrain – they <em>cheer</em>. By the time the chorus is repeated, the patrons are joyfully singing along. And then, out of nowhere, a coin is flipped onto his table with a clatter.</p><p>Geralt startles, gaze torn between the innocent coin lying in his palm, and the enigmatic bard on stage who produced it. Jaskier meets his bewildered stare and smiles – soft, and sweet, and just for him – and Geralt’s heart warms as his fingers tighten on the coin.</p><p>Jaskier did this, and did this for <em>him</em>.</p><p>Jaskier’s cheeks are flushed with exhilaration, his eyes are sparkling with joy, and his confidence exudes from every skilled movement.</p><p><em>Fuck it</em>, Geralt thinks, clearer than any thought has been before. <em>Fuck waiting for him to say something, fuck waiting until we return to Oxenfurt – I want him <span class="u">now</span>. </em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Chapter 20</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><strong>content warning for unsafe binding practices.</strong> Not only is Jaskier using an unsafe makeshifter binder in this chapter but has taken to singing in it too. please don't do this!!! starbit, the amazing sensitivity reader for this fic, wrote a <a href="https://magic-gps.tumblr.com/post/626960043767693312/safe-binding-101-ish">101 on Safe Binding</a> that I urge you to read for more information.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jaskier’s excitement grows as coin after coin are tossed onto his Witcher’s table. He had done everything he could to sway his audience but hadn’t dared hope it would work. But now? Oh, now, he is positively <em>ecstatic</em>.</p><p>After the overwhelming positive reception of <em>‘Toss a Coin’,</em> Jaskier moves onto his other songs about Geralt’s adventures, and he’s flattered when this small and eager crowd drunkenly demand an encore of ‘Toss a Coin’ afterwards. Naturally, he delivers, and by the time Jaskier walks off stage he is breathless with exhilaration and boasting a full cap of coin.</p><p>He accepts the handshakes and flirtations he is bestowed from the crowd but his movements are absent; distracted by the unwavering gaze upon him. Jaskier’s almost grateful when the next musician takes the stage and he can finally elbow through the tightly packed crowd towards Geralt.</p><p>At last, Jaskier arrives before him and drops the cap of coin on the table between them with a victorious grin. “Well, I think this bodes well for the festival, wouldn’t you say? I reckon we made a hundred crowns just by –” Jaskier falls short as his eyes fall on his companion for the first time in such close proximity. Geralt had seemed almost embarrassed by his performance earlier but his discomfort seems to have grown into nerves. Which is ridiculous, because Witchers don’t get <em>nervous</em>. But Geralt’s agitated and flushed and Jaskier doesn’t know how else to describe his reaction otherwise. A tight, hot coil of anxiety twists in his stomach at the uncanny sight. “Geralt? Are you okay?”</p><p>“Hmm,” he says, which Jaskier has learned is what Geralt says when he doesn’t know what to say. His eyes are darting around the room, looking anywhere but Jaskier.</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>The sense of rejection crashes over his performance high; the high-emotions tangling in his stomach to make him nauseous with emotion. He remembers this feeling. From lutes snatched out of youthful fingers. From matching scowls on his parents’ faces. He feels himself fidgeting but can’t seem to make himself stop. “Sorry. Did you not…? Sorry. I thought you wanted…? I… well, I don’t have to perform those songs again if they were – If you don’t want –”</p><p>Jaskier startles with how quickly Geralt covers his restless hand over the wine-stained table; the touch weighty and warm, and immediately calming the worst of his anxieties.</p><p>“It’s fine,” Geralt says, but when the words are spoken through gritted teeth, Jaskier finds it hard to believe. “That’s not…” he trails off, and withdraws his hand to rub at his eyes.</p><p>Ah. Perhaps it’s just been a long day. Geralt doesn't have the adrenaline from the performance that Jaskier has and it’s nearing midnight. Perhaps he’s just tired.</p><p>“Can we go?” Geralt’s eyes flicker towards the stairs, and Jaskier smiles, pleased that Geralt is communicating a desire, no matter how trivial. The clench in Jaskier’s gut unfurls even further; the nausea abating.</p><p>“Of course,” Jaskier says, collecting their combined coin as quietly as he can; Geralt gets overwhelmed by his enhanced senses when he’s tired and he must already be feeling drained from the loud environment. “I’ll just pay our tab then I’ll be right up.”</p><p>“No,” Geralt murmurs in a low rumble, and opens his palm to examine a coin still clutched in it. “I’ll pay.”</p><p>Jaskier’s heart flutters at the soft expression on his face. He wonders when Geralt had last earned enough coin to pay for anything but essentials. It may only be a handful of crowns but it clearly means a lot to him, so Jaskier relents with a smile and a squeeze of his hand, and makes his way upstairs, assured that whatever prompted Geralt’s strange behaviour, his music was likely not at fault. Perhaps, if Geralt allows him, he can ease whatever troubles him in a much more satisfying manner.</p><p>*</p><p>Geralt’s fingers tap restlessly against the bar as he watches Jaskier disappear up the stairs. He is still so afraid of pushing Jaskier away if his advances are unwanted but now he has accepted his desire, it is impossible to ignore. He will find a way to ask, politely, if Jaskier wants to resume their entanglement now there is a roof over their heads. He will make sure not to pressure him, to let Jaskier know that friendship is more than enough if he doesn’t want to…</p><p>“Sir Witcher! What can I do for you?”</p><p>Geralt is brought out of his musings by the barkeep and tears his eyes away from the stairs which, he notes with embarrassment, he had been watching the entire time.</p><p>He settles up and makes his way upstairs, attempting to slip into a meditative state to calm his rapidly beating heart. Jaskier might refuse him, and he vows to be accepting if that happens, but the possibility that Jaskier might be willing to bed him prevents his mind from getting control of his heart.</p><p>He knocks softly on the door, aware that Jaskier’s privacy is limited when they are sharing a room, but Jaskier calls him in regardless. He opens the door to see Jaskier fiddling with his outfit, and Geralt is momentarily startled by the peculiarity of his thoughts; he rarely uses 'him' for Jaskier while they are in private, but while Jaskier is still dressed in his fine doublet and thus still presenting as a man, Geralt feels no need to change his mental descriptors, especially considering that Jaskier has previously stated that either pronoun was fine. </p><p>“Oh, good timing!” Jaskier says, frowning down at the laces of his doublet. “Would you believe my fingers are still shaking from that exhilarating performance and I can’t seem to get these damn ties to cooperate,” he says, yanking on the ends of the ribbon with a pout and a curse. It’s endearing, as Jaskier so often is.</p><p>Geralt closes and locks the door behind him and steps forward, happy to have the excuse to breathe in the scent of Jaskier’s freshly washed hair and the sweet tang of adrenaline that still clings to him. He starts methodically unlacing the doublet, and purposefully doesn’t think about how close his fingers are to the tops of his trousers and how, beneath the smell of adrenaline, might lie another smell entirely.</p><p>Just the slightest scent of it is enough to spur him onwards. “I’ve, uh, been meaning to ask you something.”</p><p>“Oh?” Jaskier asks, all sweet and curious. His hands come to rest on Geralt’s shoulders and Geralt marshals his thoughts the best he can while he threads ribbon through eyelets and his knuckles graze Jaskier’s chest.</p><p>“Yes, I…” but then Geralt stalls, distracted by what else lies beneath the doublet. He traces the edge of the tightly wound linen with his fingers, testing the give of it with his fingertips and only finding strained fabric pins and red imprints in his wake. Jaskier’s breath hitches in response. “Are you hurt?” he asks, puzzling over the plain strips of linen, folded thrice over. “They’re wound too tightly, you should have asked me to –”</p><p>“No, it’s –” Jaskier’s hands clamp down on his, and his scent changes so suddenly that Geralt looks up at his pained expression and immediately understands the hesitation he sees there.</p><p>“These are bindings,” Geralt realises.</p><p>Jaskier bites his lip, looks away, and nods.</p><p><em>Fuck</em>.</p><p>Geralt stalls, unsure how to have this conversation. He overheard a discussion in a tailor’s shop once and thus knows that there is a light and flexible material specially made for this purpose – linen infused with lunar shards, casually referred to as “moonlight” – that he had naively assumed Jaskier would have knowledge of. But, he realises, Oxenfurt is a small town, and Jaskier is young enough not to have experience outside of that; if his so-called friends at the Rosebud did not advise him on appropriate bindings then he likely would not have stumbled across the knowledge at all.</p><p>Jaskier has apparently been making do with linen, but it doesn’t take a tailor to know that these coarse and unforgiving fabrics are unsuitable for their intended purpose. Jaskier has had to bind so tightly around their ribs that it rarely affords any movement at all. And he’s been <em>singing</em> like this. <em>Fuck</em>.</p><p>“Geralt?”</p><p>Geralt realises he’s been staring at his chest and not saying a damn thing. The scent of Jaskier’s distress hits him as hard and as unpleasant as it did earlier. <em>Fuck</em>. Geralt is terrible at this. He needs to say something to stop Jaskier from reaching the wrong conclusion but he doesn’t want to tell Jaskier what to do. He doesn’t have that right. Jaskier might even know of the risks and is deciding to use an ill-fitting binder anyway. Geralt clears his throat and attempts to broach the topic. “These, uh… they don’t restrict you? For singing?”</p><p>Jaskier frowns, and then shrugs, knocking Geralt’s hands from his doublet in the process and finishes the task of unlacing it himself. “It doesn’t matter,” Jaskier says, and Geralt’s heart aches for him. “I have to do it. They’re all looking… and I don’t want them seeing…” he swallows nervously as the last lace is undone, “you know.”</p><p>Geralt sighs and clenches his empty hands as they desperately seek to hold onto something – <em>someone</em> – else. “I know a tailor,” he says, looking to the ground as Jaskier begins to unpin the linen with a hiss of pain through his teeth. “In town. She makes specialist bindings. For this purpose. They’re, uh, less restrictive. Movable fabric. I can take you tomorrow.”</p><p>Out the corner of his eye, Geralt sees Jaskier’s hands pause in their movements. “How do you…” he trails off, and resumes unwrapping his trappings. “How do you know of such things?”</p><p>Geralt turns away as the linen loosens, and busies himself with the scattered belongings on the dressing table. “I’m nearly a hundred years old, Jaskier,” he explains tiredly. “I’ve picked up some things.”</p><p>“Yet my flirtations elude you?”</p><p>Geralt turns around with surprise, and is startled to find Jaskier standing before him in no more than a pair of white briefs.</p><p>Geralt licks his lips, suddenly very dry mouthed. “You’ve been…?”</p><p>“No, Geralt, I asked you to help me undress because I am an incompetent fool incapable of navigating a ribbon,” he jests with an amused roll of his eyes. “Of course I was flirting with you!”</p><p>Geralt intends to reply with a witty retort but as Jaskier approaches he finds that he’s rendered mute. Instead, all that leaves his mouth is a rather strangled hum of contemplation.</p><p>Jaskier smiles coyly, and flickers his eyes to Geralt’s. “I know you said we shouldn’t be intimate on the road, and I understand if you want to abide by your rules, but well, I figure we’re not – <em>technically</em> <em>speaking</em> –”</p><p>“On the road,” Geralt says in tandem, just as Jaskier steps into the circle of his arms. He can’t stop tracking his wandering eyes with his own. He had been torturing himself with how to approach this, yet somehow Jaskier knew exactly the right thing to say.</p><p>Jaskier’s smile widens. “Exactly,” he murmurs, and his hands slip beneath the bottom of Geralt’s shirt in a way that makes his breath catch. “We’re in a tavern, even. A tavern with a rather lovely bed…”</p><p>Geralt smiles at hearing his own internal argument parroted back at him almost verbatim. Jaskier has clearly been harbouring the same thoughts. “You want this?” Geralt ensures, as Jaskier tilts forward, just close enough to brush their lips together. The very touch elicits a spark that shoots down his spine and ignites his whole body with interest; like a forest igniting after a dry summer.</p><p>“Very much,” Jaskier whispers, the breath of his words tingling against Geralt’s own lips. “Do you?” he asks with a curious tilt of his head, eyes wide with lust but brow furrowed with the unknown.</p><p>The earnestness in his gaze takes Geralt by surprise – he knows, without a doubt, that if he refused Jaskier’s advances, he would accept without complaint or judgement. But there is not one bone in Geralt’s body that wants to refuse him, and with a slightest tilt of his head, Geralt gives into the desire that has plagued his body for weeks, and takes Jaskier’s lips between his own.</p><p>He lets his body answer for him as he cups Jaskier’s face in his palms and kisses him with the passion that he has kept tempered all these long weeks. The feel of his mouth against his once again is like water in a desert. He had been yearning for it, but even still, did not realise just how much he craved the familiar touch until he was bestowed it. He kisses with ardent candour and is relieved when Jaskier returns the kiss with just as much fervour. They exchange eager kisses, desperate and messy, and when Jaskier’s hand roams over his growing hardness, the last vestiges of his restraint fall to the ground as he effortlessly lifts his bard into his arms and walks them towards the bed.</p><p>“That was a ‘yes’ then?” Jaskier teases with that beatific smile of his.</p><p>Geralt grunts an affirmative, refusing to waste his mouth on speech when it can be put to much better use. But then he realises there are words he yearns to say, ones to confirm the meaning of their encounter, and pries his lips away from Jaskier’s throat to speak his desires. “You may have me,” Geralt murmurs against his lips, “As long as we are safe, and you are happy, you may have me as often as you desire.”</p><p>Jaskier’s soft smile eases any anxiety that the ardent confession may have caused him. Jaskier’s hand reaches out to cup his cheek and then Geralt is being kissed sweeter than he can ever recall. “It will please you then, to know that I desire you often, and that you are, more often than not, what makes me happy.”</p><p>Geralt grunts and – unable to comprehend the depth of emotion on his bard's face – buries his head into Jaskier’s shoulder. He is thrilled, yet terrified, by the implications of their confessions.</p><p>He does not have the words to convey the affection and appreciation he has for his bard but he can demonstrate them through his actions. Jaskier has his music but Geralt has nothing but his hands. He intends to use them well tonight, and make Jaskier feel just as valued – just as <em>cherished</em> – as Geralt had felt enveloped in his song.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Chapter 21</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Geralt carries Jaskier to the bed, captivated by their smile the entire time. Looking down into their eyes, sparkling with joy, Geralt realises that Jaskier had become ‘they’ in his mind as soon as the outside world had faded into insignificance. A few stubborn pieces of clothes still cling to Jaskier but they are naked in another, more important, sense of the word. The person in his arms has shucked their external armour and become… just Jaskier. And Jaskier is beautiful. </p><p>*</p><p>Jaskier laughs with surprise when their back hits the bed, smitten by Geralt’s candid enthusiasm. Geralt leans over them, smile wide and eyes golden, carefree and open, like he only is behind closed doors. Jaskier is once again assured that they will never tire of the sight. <em>Yes</em>, they think, as they begin to shed the layers – both physical and metaphorical – from their Witcher, <em>I will love you ‘til the end of my days.</em></p><p>Geralt’s tongue follows the angry red lines left by their binder and Jaskier moans at the overwhelming sensation and the devilish thought of where else they’d like that beautiful mouth. </p><p>Geralt is gloriously naked and slipping his hand into Jaskier’s briefs to stroke them to distraction when he finally asks his usual question, murmured against Jaskier’s shoulder, “What do you want?”</p><p>Jaskier sighs at the reaffirmation of Geralt’s sweet consideration, and fists their hand in his long hair, urging his lips to resume their maddening caress against Jaskier’s neck as they contemplate exactly what they want.</p><p>*</p><p>Geralt lavishes Jaskier’s throat with kisses to distract himself from the anticipation of Jaskier’s answer. Last time he had asked, Jaskier had requested an act which later caused them great distress. If Jaskier asks to be taken that way again, Geralt isn’t sure that he will be able to comply. The scent of their pain, the sight of their anguish… it makes something twist in the pit of Geralt’s stomach. </p><p>Luckily, Jaskier requests no such thing – “What do <em>you</em> want?” they counter after some minutes of pleasant distraction. “You never say.”</p><p>Geralt huffs a laugh into their neck. “Because there is nothing you could offer me that I would refuse.”</p><p>“That’s a dangerous thing to say to me, Witcher,” Jaskier teases, but their taunt is cut short by a sudden hitch in breath when Geralt’s teeth take to the lobe of their ear. “What if I have secret dark desires? What if I request bondage and convoluted roleplay?”</p><p>Geralt huffs another laugh and takes to their shoulder this time. “How does a first year student know of such things?”</p><p>“And how is a hundred-year-old Witcher embarrassed by them?” they retort with a pleased smirk. “You’ve never been to kink night at the Rosebud?”</p><p>Geralt raises an eyebrow. That certainly explains some things. “No, I have not, but perhaps I’m missing something?” It’s a question that hides another question. If Jaskier has such tastes, Geralt would be intrigued but he may likely not be the most suitable person to satisfy such desires.</p><p>Jaskier shrugs and pulls him into a slow and sensual kiss that makes Geralt’s eyes flutter close in contentment. “You’re not missing much,” Jaskier whispers against his lips. “At least, as far as I’m concerned. For such an adventurous soul, it seems I have fairly simple tastes when it comes to making love.”</p><p>“Is that what we’re doing?” Geralt teases gently, but it’s not much of a tease at all if Jaskier’s intense blush is anything to go by.</p><p><em>Love</em>.</p><p>What a peculiar word. </p><p>Geralt kisses them softly, hoping to ease any concern or offense at his glib remark. “I am glad of it,” he whispers against their lips, “but you still haven’t answered me.”</p><p>Jaskier laughs, as if pleased they’ve been caught out in their attempt to divert him. “I don’t mind what we do,” they answer eventually, cupping Geralt’s face in their hands. “I just… don’t want to think. Make me not think.”</p><p>Geralt nods, processing the request. “You will tell me if you are uncomfortable?” Geralt queries as he smooths his hands down Jaskier’s side, comforting them in the manner that has proven successful in the past. </p><p>A curious expression lights Jaskier’s face as the pads of their fingers move softly over his cheeks. Geralt turns his face and catches these wandering fingertips with his mouth, kissing them gently in contemplation. He wonders if anyone has ever asked as much from Jaskier before. “I will,” they swear, and tugs Geralt towards them for another sweet kiss. </p><p>*</p><p>Jaskier ought to find Geralt’s kind and compassionate nature unsurprising by this point but somehow it still makes their little heart flutter with affection every time they witness it. He is a marvel, and Jaskier will never cease believing so. </p><p>“Don’t think,” Geralt murmurs against their quivering stomach. “Just feel.”</p><p>And then, wonders of wonders, his mouth is licking over Jaskier’s briefs. </p><p>It ought to feel ridiculous, and Jaskier likely ought to <em>feel</em> ridiculous, but they bide by Geralt’s wishes and simply give into the pleasure of the act. The briefs are so thin and so damp with desire that it barely feels like there’s a barrier at all between Geralt’s probing tongue and Jaskier’s intimate area. Geralt certainly acts like it’s no hardship as he licks and teases and suckles at the most sensitive part of them. </p><p>Jaskier doesn’t remember the last time someone offered to do this to them – the last time they felt <em>comfortable</em> letting someone do this to them – but with Geralt, it doesn’t feel unnerving at all. Geralt won’t push; won’t take what isn’t offered. And, knowing this, Jaskier takes it upon themself to lower their hands and push the damn piece of fabric away. </p><p>Geralt glances up at them, as if to make sure of their intentions, but whatever he sees must reassure him because he soon resumes his ministrations – this time with no barrier between them at all. </p><p>The new intensity of the action makes Jaskier instinctively buck towards the sensation but their hips are firmly held down by Geralt’s strong arms. Geralt is relentless in his pursuit; Jaskier can barely form coherent thought as he pleasures them with his mouth alone, never moving to penetrate them, just licking and sucking and otherwise relishing the exterior. It feels so damn good. Jaskier can’t remember the last time a sexual act felt this divine; the last time someone managed to produce pleasure with no anxiety. Their hand blindly scrambles for Geralt’s hair as an unexpected climax surges through them.</p><p>Geralt eases his attention but doesn’t withdraw entirely, instead caressing their inner thigh with kisses, and then boldly licking the entire way along their folds.</p><p>Jaskier moans at the unexpected movement, knowing without a doubt that Geralt’s mouth must be near-dripping with evidence of their pleasure.</p><p>Geralt rumbles between their thighs, sending a delightful tingle across their body at the intimate vibration. “May I try something further?”</p><p>Jaskier, panting, and still reeling from their first peak, nods enthusiastically. “Yeah. Whatever… whatever you want.”</p><p>The corners of Geralt’s mouth twitch into a smile and then he’s furling his hand and pressing one sure knuckle against their opening – not entering, just… teasing. Circling. Pressing ever so slightly in…</p><p>Jaskier moans and clutches at Geralt’s shoulders as the simple light touch completely unravels them. Geralt nudges his knuckle back in, and out, and circling… just playing with the sensitive entrance. Jaskier has not experienced this act outside of rushed foreplay – a clumsy attempt at fingering in most cases – and had no idea the tease could feel this pleasurable in and of itself. </p><p>Jaskier feels Geralt’s thumb unfurl and stretch outwards, pressing against their most sensitive area, and the movement causes the rest of his hand to shift closer against their folds. It gives them a very good and very bad idea that Jaskier can’t help but encourage – “Are you going to give me the full service?” they tease. </p><p>*</p><p>Geralt looks up at Jaskier with a frown. This is likely some new innuendo that he hasn’t yet stumbled across. Jaskier exhales a breathy chuckle, fond amusement crossing their face, and then they make an obscene gesture that implies… thumb up front, two fingers inside, and the little finger behind…</p><p>Geralt huffs a laugh and shakes his head, continuing the’ rocking of his hand against Jaskier’s folds. “No, I wasn’t planning on it.” </p><p>Jaskier whines, and Geralt genuinely doesn’t know if it was at the deeper press of his knuckle, or at the denial of their wishes. Jaskier can make all the protests they want but Geralt isn’t intending to fully penetrate them any time soon, not after what happened last time. </p><p>“I told you, first time we met that I –” Jaskier bemoans, though Geralt is pleased that their protests are cut short by another breathy moan – “I’ve taken men from behind before. You can fuck me like that if you want. I don’t mind.”</p><p>“I’d rather do something you <em>want</em> than something you ‘don’t mind,’” Geralt retorts, and flicks his thumb just a little firmer against their nub because he’s clearly not pleasuring Jaskier enough if they’re still capable of arguing back. “And I can’t imagine you’ve taken something as large as me before. We’re not doing it.”</p><p>Jaskier, once again, makes some form of garbled protest from which Geralt gathers that no, Jaskier hasn’t taken much more than a couple of inches from whatever meagre college boys they’ve charmed into bed.</p><p>“Until you can comfortably take that phallus of yours, you’re not having me either.”</p><p>“Sounds like a challenge,” Jaskier gasps, and bucks from the bed as Geralt twists his hand just so. “I do so love a challenge.” </p><p>Geralt is naive enough to believe he’s won the argument until a couple of minutes later when Jaskier asks – </p><p>“What about a finger?”</p><p>“What?” Geralt asks, having been focused entirely on the matter at hand (so to speak). </p><p>“Just your little pinky,” Jaskier pleads. “I want it. Please?” </p><p>*</p><p>Jaskier rarely vocalises their desires in bed but with Geralt it always seems easy. Something about the way Geralt presses against their entrance with his knuckles fills them with a sudden craving for penetration of another kind. Geralt seems startled by the request, but not affronted, as he slowly pries his hand from between Jaskier’s legs. Jaskier groans at the absence of touch but their protests are soon silenced when Geralt holds that very hand before them, the smallest finger stretched out towards their mouth in invitation. Jaskier can smell their own pleasure on his hand and revels in the heady scent.</p><p>They lock eyes as Jaskier sucks the digit sensually into their mouth, and they know with sudden clarity exactly what they want to do to Geralt when it’s time for reciprocation.</p><p>Jaskier releases the finger, and for a moment it lies between them, obscenely wet with saliva, before Geralt lowers his hand and circles his smallest finger against their back entrance; just as teasing as his knuckle had been against their front entrance earlier. </p><p>The act is familiar to Jaskier and it’s easy to relax into it; their body eagerly accepting the intrusion. Jaskeir sighs at the blissful sensation of something pressed deep inside them. They feel <em>complete</em>. This is why they have always loved this act; a sense of completion without the accompanying crawl of anxiety. </p><p>Geralt seems more ruined by the penetration than Jaskier does; his brow furrows, his mouth hangs agape, and the most wonderful, strangled sounds fall from his lips. </p><p>Jaskier moans at the sight as much as the sensation, pleased that the act has wrought Geralt to such ruin. Jaskier knows without a doubt that he will spend the next year practising with that phallus under Valda’s bed until they can take Geralt in his entirety. They want to see that blissful expression on Geralt’s face every damn day of their life.  </p><p>*</p><p>Jaskier takes his finger beautifully, and after a couple of slow thrusts, Geralt returns the rest of his hand to their folds and moves it purposefully until Jaskier is gasping through another climax; hips bucking as they’re torn between the multitude of sensations. Geralt can’t take his eyes off them as they ride the waves of pleasure; flushed, and panting, and exquisite. </p><p>Geralt has barely extracted his hand before Jaskier is eagerly tugging him up the bed and sucking his hard member into their mouth. </p><p>Geralt gasps at the sudden heat enveloping him. He is already teetering on the edge after so long pleasuring Jaskier, surrounded by their intimate scent. Jaskier is particularly skilled at this act and Geralt has to smother his mouth to silence his whimpers. He realises too late that it is the very same hand with which he pleasured Jaskier and the divine combination of their scent and sweat has him careening over the edge within minutes. His orgasm rips through him, sharp and potent with build-up desire, and when he shouts his pleasure, it’s with Jaskier’s name on his tongue.</p><p>* </p><p>Jaskier expects Geralt to excuse himself afterwards but instead he seems content to lie there while he catches his breath, and then even longer besides. His arm is thrown out across Jaskier’s chest, as if he fears that <em>Jaskier</em> will be the one leaving. </p><p>“So… taverns,” Jaskier muses. “An acceptable exception to the rule?”</p><p>Geralt grunts, which Jaskier takes as an affirmative. They’re starting to be able to read the subtle intonations in Geralt’s wordless responses and it fills them with pride.  </p><p>Jaskier closes his eyes and has started to doze when Geralt finally clears his throat to speak. “Thank you.”</p><p>Jaskier frowns and tilts their head towards him. The movement nudges their hair into Geralt’s arm and Geralt doesn’t seem to mind, as his hand lowers to card through the errant strands. “For the sex…? Because you’re very welcome. That was excellent sex. I probably ought to be thanking you in fact –”</p><p>“For the songs.”</p><p>“Oh,” Jaskier says, their voice warmed by soft surprise. They tilt their head further until they’re able to glimpse Geralt’s amber eyes which are flickering down to theirs. Something soft unfurls in their chest at the ardent display of affection. “Oh,” Jaskier repeats, allowing the warmth to spread through them. “Well, I’m… I’m glad you like them.”</p><p>Geralt sighs softly, and presses his lips against their hair. “Get some sleep, bard, I believe you have some incompetent musicians to best in the morning.”</p><p>Jaskier stretches on a yawn and sleepily tucks their head into Geralt’s shoulder as Geralt pulls a blanket over the two of them. “How right you are, my Witcher, how right you are.”</p>
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<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Chapter 22</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Geralt wakes at dawn feeling warm and sated and it doesn’t take him long to realise why when Jaskier’s familiar scent surrounds him and their little sleepy exhales skitter across his chest. Geralt cracks open an eye and takes a moment to admire their sleep-mussed hair and soft cheeks, flushed with the summer’s sun. The sight causes a swirl of emotion inside of him that he knows better than to indulge as he begins to untangle himself from the bed.</p><p>Jaskier stirs at the movement and slurs out a question along the lines of ‘where are you going’ all without batting an eye.</p><p>Geralt smiles softly and gives into the urge to brush a parting kiss along their hairline, pleased when Jaskier preens at the touch. “Archespores are best fought in the early morning. I have that contract at Castel Ravello. I’ll be back before midday. We can go to the tailors. Barbers too, if you’re willing,” Geralt adds as his fingers absently card through brown hair that was notably longer than when they left Oxenfurt.</p><p>Jaskier grunts and nuzzles into the touch. “Fine,” they murmur, finally opening their eyes a scant inch to glare at Geralt. “But I’m getting pastries and not saving you any.”</p><p>Geralt huffs a laugh, well aware that despite Jaskier’s taunts, there will likely be a croissant awaiting him on his return. “Don’t get into any trouble while I’m gone,” he advises, as he finally extracts himself from the bed.</p><p>“I never get in trouble,” they say on a yawn, and then they’re rolling over and falling back to sleep.</p><p>-</p><p>Roach greets him at the stables with a glare and a stamp of hooves that belies her frustration with him.</p><p>“I know,” he grunts, placing a placating hand on her nose, “I’m late. And I’m sure you know why.”</p><p>Roach neighs and stamps her hooves again.</p><p>Geralt sighs, and continues bribing her the best he can with loving pats and secretive snacks. “You can hardly blame me, Roach. You’ve been pushing it all summer.”</p><p>Roach breaks away from his touch with a shake of her head as if to say ‘but did it have to be <em>now</em>?’</p><p>Geralt huffs a laugh. “You’re right, my girl, I’m sorry I kept you waiting. Shall we go?”</p><p>-</p><p>It’s not until Geralt is meeting with the vineyard owner, negotiating pay while covered in archespore gore, that the similarities of the situation strike him. The last time he had fought an archespore resurgence and made annoying small talk with the contract issuer afterwards was back in Oxenfurt, with Professor Gascoigne, approximately three hours before he met the bard who would change his life.</p><p>He smiles at the memory. The vintner before him grimaces. After another five minutes of small talk later, and Geralt gets paid one hundred and ten crowns.</p><p>-</p><p>Roach greets him with a look of disdain as Geralt unties her from the vineyard gates. “I know, I know,” he murmurs, patting her flank. “You’ve never seen someone covered in archespore gore look so happy. Apparently I’m getting sentimental in my old age.”</p><p>Roach snorts her amusement and headbutts him fondly; her way of saying ‘you’re weird, but I like you’.</p><p>Geralt smiles and pets her as his answer in kind. “Come on, old friend, it’s time we were getting back. I’m sure our bard has talked his way into trouble already.”</p><p>Roach neighs in agreement as Geralt puts his feet in the stirrups and rides back towards Beauclair.</p><p>*</p><p>“And I’ll have you all know,” Jaskier boasts loudly, with a flailing tankard of mead in his hand, “that I wrote that song in no less than half an hour, drunk, and with a maiden between my legs, and my audition was <em>still</em> far superior to that of the supposedly-great Valda Marx.”</p><p>There are a few heckles from across the square but Jaskier ignores them in favour of regaling his new audience of eager-eyed youths with the story of how he blagged his way into the prestigious Oxenfurt Bardic programme.</p><p>“And so I am under no illusions when I say that I can, and will, best whichever students the city of Beauclair manages to produce for this tawdry category –”</p><p>“<em>Shut your cakehole, you uncultured northern swine!</em>”</p><p>Jaskier turns to find the culprit whose taunts have actually managed to interrupt his story – a sharp-edged woman holding a drum of all things – and turns back to the youths with a stony gaze, “Now, if you excuse me, children, it seems that I have some other ignorant fools to educate –”</p><p>He is stopped with a firm hand against his chest. He looks up and, with a sliver of shame, realises who he is talking to. “Oh, Geralt. Hi. I was just about to –”</p><p>“Start an unnecessary fist fight, yes, I heard. Aren’t you meant to be saving your voice? And your hands, for that matter.”</p><p>Whatever witty response Jaskier had been concocting disappears with a stench of monster gore. Geralt is covered head to toe in green slime. Slime that is now smeared across his fine navy doublet. Jaskier groans and begins wiping down the residue with a handkerchief. The gesture makes him wonder if Geralt noticed his breasts were unbound when he had touched him just now, and if he knows the reason why. Jaskier had picked up the strip of linen that morning on instinct, only to wince in memory of the pain, and remember Geralt’s advice that there was a better way. He figured his fellow musicians would be too busy rehearsing their mediocre ballads to notice the fullness of his chest in any case.</p><p>Jaskier pockets the filthy handkerchief and clears his throat. “Yes, and you ought to be getting to the baths. I can’t believe you carried that vile stench all around this beautiful city. You really ought to be paying the poor townspeople compensation for exposing them to such villainy.”</p><p>Geralt huffs a laugh. “If I did that, I’d have no coin left for a bath.”</p><p>“Yes, yes, off with you then,” Jaskier says with waving motions of his hands.</p><p>Geralt doesn’t budge an inch. His eyes dart off to the side, and then back with a furrow in his brow. “I was wondering if you’d like to join.”</p><p>“Oh,” Jaskier says, flattered and trying not to make it look so apparent. “Right. Yes. I can do that. Just let me –” he turns around and pries his beautiful elven-made lute from the clumsy hands of a young student.</p><p>“I don’t want to interrupt your rehearsal if you –”</p><p>“No, no, it’s fine,” Jaskier says in a hurry, packing up his instrument in record time before Geralt can change his mind. “I hardly need as much practise as these young folk do anyway.”</p><p>Geralt rolls his eyes with a fond smile. Jaskier is aware that he’s peacocking but it’s part of being a good showman and he wants all these amateurs to know that he’s a professional.</p><p>“If you excuse me,” he says loudly, pretending that the scattered youths around him are still clinging to his every word, “I must follow my muse to the next adventure. I bid you all adieu.” He bows dramatically, and lets their snorts of laughter and tuts of disapproval fuel the small smile on his lips. To win, you need to be memorable, and Jaskier plans on being very memorable indeed. “Shall we?” he asks Geralt, once he’s risen from his deep bow.</p><p>Geralt nods with a small secret smile of his own, and lets Jaskier take his arm.</p><p>*</p><p>It took the entire ride back to Beauclair to steel the courage to ask Jaskier to join him in the baths and remedy his refusal yesterday. Jaskier is eager, and even helps him to shed the majority of the gore under the showers before entering the private baths, without even gawking at the unpleasant odour. Jaskier may put on a show in front of others but when it’s just them, Jaskier never complains about the Witcher’s work.</p><p>Jaskier cleans him thoroughly and attentively and Geralt relaxes into their nimble and purposeful fingers as they massage his scalp and work the suds from his skin. In his relaxed state, he’s not even sure which one of them initiates the soft gentle kiss; he’s only truly aware of it when Jaskier slides into his lap and ignites the spark of desire within him.</p><p>Geralt is still too sluggish from his Witcher potions to fully engage but is content to revel in the intimacy of naked skin pressed together and accept the sweet kisses that Jaskier bestows him. After some moments, Jaskier rises to takes his fingers into their folds and Geralt is pleasantly surprised to see no ill aftereffects from the penetration as they continue trading lazy touches in the cooling pool.</p><p>“We should get you to the tailor before she closes,” Geralt murmurs into his skin, before Jaskier can doze against his shoulder. He doesn’t know if the bathhouse have a fine for overstaying and isn’t keen to find out.</p><p>“Will you come with me?” Jaskier asks, raising their head from Geralt’s shoulder. “Only I don’t know the right things to say, or…” they shrug. “I don’t know. I would just like you there.”</p><p>“Of course,” Geralt says, with another kiss against their skin. “Of course I will come.”</p><p>*</p><p>The bathhouse barber tends to them both quite nicely, Jaskier thinks, as he admires his reflection in the tailor’s floor-length mirror. His hair is as short as it’s ever been, he looks more masculine than he’s ever been, and it feels <em>good</em>. Geralt, of course, always looks good, but the barber tied the sides of his hair into little braids before reaching his ponytail and it’s incredibly attractive to see his monster hunter decorated so delicately.</p><p>Jaskier is focusing on Geralt’s braids, of course, because he’s a little too afraid to focus on what he’s actually saying –</p><p>“I’m interested in moonlight. Do you have any?”</p><p>The tailor is a short, trim, woman with golden brown skin and a prim and proper Toussaintoi accent that definitely places her as Beauclair-born. She wears the most beautiful patterned silks that Jaskier has ever seen and her hair is braided in such an elaborate fashion that it puts Geralt’s Skellige-style braids to shame. She is curt, and to-the-point, and as soon as she speaks, Jaskier understands why Geralt is fond of her. “Ah, making more light armour, are we? I told you once, and I’ll tell you again. That elven armourer you go to may be awfully clever but he can’t measure for shit. You did the right thing by coming to me first. What is it you want this time? Feline? I’m sure you gave me schematics last time but I –”</p><p>The woman is already halfway into a crate, searching around her papers, before Geralt corrects her – “Indira,” he says, and she pauses her movements, presumably at the sound of her name. “That’s not quite… It’s not for me.”</p><p>Indira stands straight, her search for schematics abandoned, as her eyes drift for the first time behind Geralt to the bard in his shadow.</p><p>Jaskier swallows his nerves and scuffs his boots against the floor in the need for some distraction.</p><p>Geralt barrels on, with no shame or embarrassment at all. “You make vests with it, correct?”</p><p>Indira nods but looks at Geralt with a disbelieving furrow of her brow, as if she has no idea how he would have come across such knowledge.</p><p>“I heard you disparage Francine’s creations once,” he explains.</p><p>A storm seems to pass over Indira’s face as she fumes with hands placed firmly on her hips. “That woman, I swear to Lebioda, she was selling these poor folk bound linen for a hundred crowns a pop! An utter disgrace! As if that’s anywhere near the same thing as authentic moonlight or one of my tailored vests,” she tuts. “She should be ashamed at the damage that she has caused.”</p><p>Jaskier flushes at the realisation that ‘bound linen’ was exactly what he had been using up until this morning.</p><p>“Not that I blame you, sweetheart,” she says, stepping forward to reassure Jaskier with a hand on his arm. “If that vile woman has led you astray then I can only apologise on behalf of my profession, but now you are here, my sweet, we can get you measured and fixed up in no time – if, I mean, it is you, we are fitting?”</p><p>Jaskier has frozen with embarrassment but Geralt answers for him with a curt nod. “Yes, Jaskier here is the one in need. He’s a performer, see –”</p><p>“Ah,” she says with a raised finger, as if that makes a lick of sense to her. “So we need illusions for performances, say no more. How fortuitous you came to me today! I have been so looking forward to debuting my new design on someone worthy. It’s a lightweight undergarment that uses strategic padding to create the illusion of a flat chest but without the restriction you’d get from a moonlight binder. A vest suitable for everyday use as a singing, dancing bard, or pair it with some light moonlight underneath for those special occasions where you need to feel at your best.”</p><p>“Quite the sales pitch,” Jaskier manages to mumble through his embarrassment. Now he’s accustomed to Indira’s bold personality and the new situation, he’s actually starting to feel excited by the prospect.</p><p>“I promise you, my dear,” she says, tugging on his hand to push him towards the mirror, as she gropes for the measuring tape in the other hand, “With a little bit of tailoring magic, you will feel like the man you were always meant to be!”</p><p>-</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>Jaskier has been staring into the mirror for five minutes but still can’t make sense of the sight. It’s a man starting back. A <em>man</em>. The vest is just as effective as Indira had promised and when paired with light moonlight and a doublet in a beautiful shade of aquamarine, it makes his eyes shine with all the joy that he is feeling. The artful lines and subtle padding of the doublet that Indira has spent hours perfecting do wonders and the single layer of moonlight against his skin – no more pressure than a brassiere – support him where necessary. The overall effect makes him speechless.</p><p>“Oh,” he says again.</p><p>“You like?” Indira says with a teasing smile, like she knows full well that he approves. “It’s just a sample, but if you’re interested, I can make another within the week –”</p><p>“Yes,” Jaskier muses, still unable to take his eyes off the mirror. “Yes. Definitely, yes. I might take this doublet as well. And perhaps some moonlight, as is.”</p><p>“Hmm, if you like, but no singing in it,” she says with a wag of her finger. “I know what you bards are like, but I’m serious when I tell you –”</p><p>“I know, I know,” Jaskier says, running his hands down his straight chest and marvelling, “Geralt already gave me the lecture.”</p><p>“Good boy,” she says with a wink in Geralt’s direction. Then she leans in and whispers to him, “You should keep a hold of that one.”</p><p>Jaskier ducks his head with a blush. He wants to hold on. He really does. But he’s well aware that this road ends up back in Oxenfurt. He won’t abandon his studies to live on the road, and Geralt won’t abandon the path to play house in Oxenfurt. He’ll hold on to him for as long as he can, that he promises himself.</p><p>“How about a secondary vest instead?” she asks, breaking Jaskier out of his thoughts. “One with no compression at all. Just shaping. So you can sing to your heart’s content. Suitable for wearing under shirts, doublets, even nightclothes, with no one none the wiser.”</p><p>Jaskier strokes his hands over his flat chest, marvelling. It wasn’t technically <em>magic</em> but it may as well be for how effective it was. If Indira can promise near the same effect even without the thin layer of moonlight he’s wearing now... “Yes. Yes please. I’ll just take two vests; one of each. And the moonlight, just in case.”</p><p>Jaskier feels Geralt step up beside him with a wry smile. “In case you... what? Have a day without singing?”</p><p>“I go to <em>functions</em>, Geralt. Events. Lectures. I might need it for certain clothing options. I don’t know, do I? Better safe than sorry.”</p><p>“That’s what I always say!” Indira chimes in as she steps away to prepare Jaskier’s order.</p><p>Geralt glares after her as if he’s worried she’s doing no more than chasing a sale, but Jaskier pulls him back with a tug on his sleeve and a beatific smile that ought to reassure him that this is about much more than a sale.</p><p>“You look good,” Geralt murmurs as soon as Indira has stepped into the backroom, and Jaskier feels the compliment warm through him. Any last remaining concerns that Geralt wouldn’t be attracted to him like this dissipate into the ether.</p><p>Their eyes lock in the mirror and Jaskier sees the truth in his statement – how wide and black his pupils are, how his breath is coming short and shallow, and the way that he licks his lips…</p><p>“Indira!” Jaskier calls back, suddenly very eager to be alone with his Witcher. “I’m going to take these to go!” He eagerly spills a handful of coins and gems on the counter, far more than even his laundry list of specialist clothing ought to cost, and tugs on Geralt’s hand.</p><p>They barely wait until Indira has collected the payment and given them a collection date before stumbling out of the door and onto the street outside.</p><p>Jaskier has scarcely gotten his bearings when Geralt pushes him down the nearest alleyway and takes his lips between his own. Jaskier groans into the kiss and clutches at Geralt for support as his head turns light-headed with desire.</p><p>“You like it then?” Jaskier asks, breaking the kiss with a delighted laugh.</p><p>“I’d like to fuck you in it.”</p><p>Jaskier laughs again, whether at Geralt’s blunt flirtations, or the sheer joy of the situation, he doesn’t know. He feels <em>high</em>. <em>Giddy</em>. Like he’s back in the Pontar, high off his tits, but no longer wondering…</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>No longer wondering if it’s…</p><p>That was the right reflection, he realises with sudden clarity. In the mirror. In that tailor’s shop. That was the <em>right reflection</em>.</p><p>Jaskier takes Geralt’s face in his hands and kisses him fully – with every overwhelming emotion surging through him – and then says, “Yes. Fuck me. Fuck me like this.”</p>
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<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Chapter 23</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They tumble through the door to their room with locked lips and Jaskier’s hand cupping Geralt’s trousers with intent.</p><p>“What do you want?” Geralt asks against Jaskier’s lips, because he always wants to give Jaskier what he wants – and, oh, is it ‘he’ right now. Jaskier looks breathtakingly masculine in his new clothes and Geralt saw that secret little smile on his face when Indira called him a ‘man’. Therefore, Geralt is not at all surprised when Jaskier gasps out –</p><p>“Fuck me, over that table, like you would a man.”</p><p>Geralt growls in desire and hefts Jaskier into his arms before he can even process the request in its entirety. His traitorous hand is already sweeping their belongings off the dressing table when Jaskier’s intended meaning occurs to him. “<em>Fuck</em>,” he curses between biting kisses. “I told you I won’t take you that way until –”</p><p>“Then <em>pretend</em>,” Jaskier states darkly, and pulls on Geralt’s bottom lip with his teeth until they both stumble back against the table. </p><p>Geralt groans at the idea, just as taken with it as Jaskier, as he lifts Jaskier onto the table and comes to stand between his legs. “Between your folds again?” he asks. </p><p>Jaskier whines dramatically and claws at Geralt’s shirt. “No, <em>inside</em>.”  </p><p>Geralt winces; his sense memory recalling the stench of Jaskier’s anxiety and the feeling of him shuddering in Geralt’s arms. Jaskier <em>had</em> taken his fingers well yesterday in the baths – had volunteered the act, even – but Geralt is still hesitant to penetrate him fully in case he has an adverse reaction after the fact. </p><p>“Please,” Jaskier pleads, pulling him in for a desperate and passionate kiss, as if he can sense Geralt’s hesitation. “I want to. Need to. Want to feel it, I can’t –” he breaks off to initiate another passionate kiss, and then he’s shifting his hips and pressing his privates against Geralt’s erection and even between two layers of cloth it feels divine. “Please.”</p><p>Geralt can’t deny him. He can never deny him. And Jaskier is brimming with confidence now, and something indescribable that keeps making him laugh in this delightful way, and if this is what Jaskier needs to feel good right now then Geralt will happily provide it. </p><p>“Alright,” he concedes, and then Jaskier is kissing him again; heady and passionate. Geralt ruts mindlessly against him, reveling in the building intensity between them before he finally tears himself away. “Turn around,” he says, and backs away, just far enough for Jaskier to do as he’s told.</p><p>Jaskier grins and hops down from the dressing table, yanking down his trousers and briefs, before turning round and bending over the table, shameless and eager. The blatant invitation makes Geralt’s mouth water and he has to squeeze himself through the tight fabric of his trousers to tamper his desire.</p><p>Jaskier said <em>pretend </em>and so he’s trying to pretend; wondering what he would do if Jaskier had offered his rear entrance instead, and if he had a good little cock hanging beneath the edge of the table desperate for Geralt’s touch…</p><p><em>Fuck</em>.</p><p>Geralt is going to come in his pants if he continues that train of thought.</p><p>He marshals himself and releases his hard member from his trousers, teasing them both by pressing himself against Jaskier’s rear. Then, he follows his instinct, and reaches round to Jaskier’s mound, cupping and squeezing his nub just like he would a dick.</p><p>Jaskier bucks and moans at the touch as if it were the very thing he was craving and it gives Geralt the confidence to keep playing pretend like Jaskier asked. He strokes him a handful more times, each movement greeted with a delightful moan, and then he recalls his hand to bring it before Jaskier’s mouth instead. He remembers how Jaskier had begged for his fingers in his rear last night, and how Jaskier had slicked the sole little finger he had taken with saliva first. If Geralt were doing this in actuality he would source some appropriate lubricant and take it achingly slowly, but it’s <em>pretend</em>. And he can pretend that two fingers covered in Jaskier’s saliva is all the slick he would need.</p><p>Jaskier accepts the fingers into his mouth with a moan and lavishes his tongue around them in such a manner that Geralt has to rub his member against Jaskier’s rear to alleviate his sudden desire. </p><p>“Please,” Jaskier gasps, letting Geralt’s dripping fingers fall from his mouth. “Inside me.”</p><p>Geralt doesn’t need telling twice as he circles his wet fingers around Jaskier’s entrance, teasing and pushing just ever so slightly as he did last night, before Jaskier starts raking his fingers across the wooden desk in frustration, and Geralt finally yields and pushes them inside him. Jaskier accepts the intrusion just as well as he’d hoped – with a sigh of pleasure, and a minute shifting of hips.</p><p>Jaskier had had a thoughtful expression on his face when he rode Geralt’s fingers yesterday in the baths, but now there is no such hesitancy. Whatever Jaskier was testing, or experimenting with, seems to have culminated in his desire for full penetration, as Geralt’s fingers have only achieved a handful of thrusts before Jaskier is begging for more. </p><p>Geralt adds a third finger, pretending that’s what Jaskier was asking for, and delights in the muffled curses and scrambling fingers that he receives in response. Before Jaskier can verbalise his displeasure, Geralt reaches around again to stroke his nub, and it’s mere moments later that he senses Jaskier approaching his peak. He retreats before Jaskier can climax, and Jaskier whines louder than Geralt’s ever heard, but if they’re playing pretend then Jaskier is surely only permitted a singular climax.</p><p>Geralt tells him as much and only receives a handful more curses in response. “Then fuck me already, you… you… oaf!”</p><p>Geralt’s not sure if he’s ever seen Jaskier so wrung out and desperate; his usual composure and snarky remarks waylaid by his desperation. It fills him with desire, but also with a softer, kinder emotion. He leans down and brushes a sweet kiss along the back of Jaskier’s neck amongst the sweat-slick hair that clings to him just above his doublet and takes a moment just to breath in the intoxicating smell of him. Jaskier mewls and reaches back with searching hands that Geralt easily circumvents. </p><p>“I’ve got you,” Geralt reassures, nuzzling into Jaskier’s shoulder, before leaning back and – at last – pressing his member against Jaskier’s entrance. </p><p>*</p><p>Jaskier feels the head of Geralt’s cock penetrate him and, not for the first time, pretends it’s another entrance entirely. But this time it’s different because <em>Geralt</em> is pretending too. He keeps stroking him like a man, and touching him like a man, and is now… <em>oh</em>, fucking him like a man too. </p><p>This time, Jaskier doesn’t have to pretend very hard at all. It’s an entrance that gives him pleasure. That’s all he needs to think about. And as Geralt presses deeper and deeper into him, it gets hard to think of anything else in any case. </p><p>“You look so good in that doublet,” Geralt growls against his ear, “And you look so good taking my cock.”</p><p>The unexpected dirty talk short-circuits his brain to the point where Jaskier can only garble out unintelligible nonsense. </p><p>“I’ve never had a man take me so good before.”</p><p>Jaskier near-<em>howls</em> at that statement and claws at the dressing table for some purchase. Does Geralt know what he’s doing? He never talks during sex. Not unless spurred on by Jaskier. But he’s <em>volunteering</em> these words, and Jaskier can only think it’s because he knows how much Jaskier wants to hear them. <em>Fuck, fuck, fuck</em>… he’s too good. He’s perfect. <em>Fuck</em>, Geralt’s perfect. </p><p>“Say that again,” he says, gasping between every word as Geralt begins to pound into him in earnest. </p><p>And, Geralt, the wonder that he is, knows exactly what Jaskier is asking for – “you’re the finest man in Beauclair, with your fancy doublet, and your fancy hair” – he says, fisting Jaskier’s hair, before leaning down and whispering in Jaskier’s ear “– and your fancy <em>cock</em>.”</p><p>Jaskier screams, uncontrolled, as Geralt tugs at Jaskier’s member and pushes him over the edge; just as violent and thrilling as a freefall. Geralt’s pounding hips and his pinching fingers don’t relent as he carries Jaskier through his orgasm.</p><p>It was far too soon. Jaskier feels heat blossom on his cheeks, embarrassed that he may have ruined their game by his early peak, until he hears Geralt behind him – “Can I?” he grunts between gritted teeth.</p><p><em>Fuck</em>. He must be just as close.</p><p>Jaskier nods eagerly, knowing exactly what Geralt is asking for, and wanting it just as much as he wanted it the first time. “Yes,” he breathes. “Whatever you need. Come inside me. I want to feel you. Please, Geralt, I –” </p><p>Geralt lets out a strangled moan before his fingers tighten on Jaskier’s hips and he uses his superior strength to pull Jaskier back onto his cock, repeatedly spearing him just a handful more times before he comes with a muffled curse against his neck. </p><p>*</p><p>Geralt extracts himself from Jaskier's folds carefully, watching for any signs of discomfort from his lover. Jaskier still smells like the good kind of adrenaline but that’s what it smelled like the last time too, until the scent turned sour. </p><p>Jaskier sighs, though it appears to be one of happiness, as he maneuvers off the table and tests his joints with little circular movements. He’s grinning dopily and his eyes are glassy, as if he’s still riding the high.</p><p>“Alright?” Geralt asks warily, as he tucks himself back into his trousers.</p><p>Jaskier hums contentedly and reaches for his own trousers and briefs that have fallen around his ankles, still smiling slightly as he affixes them again. “Hmm? Yes, so far, so good. I told you it’s fine sometimes.”</p><p>“You… did,” Geralt says, unsure, and still watching Jaskier warily as he fixes his appearance. He does genuinely seem to be in good spirits but they’re not out of the woods just yet.</p><p>Jaskier seems to notice his scrutiny and pushes his shoulder good naturedly. “Stop watching me, you creep. I told you I’m fine! Fine, and running rather late for my performance, I might add. You haven’t seen my cap, have you?” he asks, searching what he can of the room while his sight is blocked by Geralt’s broad figure.</p><p>Geralt steps away from the table and scoops up the feathered cap from where it had fallen last night, tossing it to him. Jaskier catches it and runs his fingers through his sex-mussed hair before covering it with the extravagant cap. His cheeks are still flushed, his lips still rosy, and he smells good; like sex, and excitement. </p><p>“Let me help you,” Geralt offers, if only to bide him some time. “I can clean –” He pulls out a rather crumpled handkerchief from his pocket only to realise a moment later that it is still stained with blood from when he used it as a makeshift bandage last week, and pockets it again with some embarrassment. “Never mind,” he murmurs.</p><p>Jaskier seems to have seen to matters himself while Geralt was floundering; pressing his own – <em>clean</em> – handkerchief to his brow to mop away the sweat and then reaching for that vile concoction he calls ‘perfume’ presumably to hide the scent of their carnal activities. </p><p>“Can I accompany you?” Geralt asks instead, worried that Jaskier could still suffer some ill effects from their coupling. </p><p>Jaskier baulks at this innocent question, and turns to Geralt with disbelief, perfume bottle still lying innocuously in his hand. “To the student category of the first round of the –”</p><p>“Yes,” Geralt says, before Jaskier can list the entire programme. “I’d like to hear you.”</p><p>“You heard me last night.”</p><p>“Yes, and I’d say that turned out very well,” he says, with a fond smirk.</p><p>Jaskier seems to be strangely imbalanced by this statement, opening his mouth a couple of times as if trying to find a rebuttal and failing. </p><p>“I’ll keep out of your way,” Geralt assures him. </p><p>“It’s just that…” Jaskier seems very pale now, fiddling with the high neck of their doublet. “You might not like some of the songs… you know how it is, ballads appeal to a crowd like this, uh, love songs and such trite nonsense, and I… well. I don’t imagine that’s your speed.” </p><p>Geralt frowns. “If you don’t want me to come, that’s fine, I can –”</p><p>“No,” Jaskier assures hurriedly, stepping forward to press his hands against Geralt’s open shirt. “I would love for you to be there, as a bodyguard if nothing else, seeing as I may have already caused a few altercations amongst my peers…”</p><p>“Of course you have,” Geralt mutters with a bizarre combination of irritation and fondness. </p><p>“I just want you to be prepared.”</p><p>“For the love songs? Or the fist fights?”</p><p>Jaskier blushes, and busies himself with straightening his sleeves. “For both, I suppose. As long as you’re not doing this to…” he looks away, suddenly shy. “You know, keep an eye on me? Because I told you: I’m <em>fine</em>.”</p><p>Geralt is definitely doing this to keep an eye on him. “No,” he lies smoothly. “Just fancy an ale.”</p><p>Jaskier grins and pats his cheek good-naturedly. “That’s the spirit!” he exclaims, grabbing his lute, and heading for the door. “Now, come, let us bless the streets of Beauclair with our song!”</p><p>“<em>Your</em> song,” Geralt amends absently as he follows him out the door.</p><p>“<em>Our</em> song,” Jaskier insists with a wink and a smile. “You are my muse, after all, and what is an artist without their muse?”</p><p>Jaskier skips down the stairs with a mischievous grin and sparkling eyes, and Geralt turns away to lock their door with a sad smile.<em> What is an artist without their muse?</em> He intends never to find out. </p>
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<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Chapter 24</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>new song! it's mentioned throughout this chapter and you can listen/download/read lyrics to <em>Fiorano</em> <a href="https://vands38.tumblr.com/post/629433914085244928/written-for-the-fic-return-to-oxenfurt-the">here</a>.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first round of the tournament goes well, and so does the next – in fact, they all go well, until Jaskier is accepted into the final of the Beauclair Music and Poetry Student Competition. The sex goes along well beside it, the two of them snatching intimate moments between profitable contracts and concerts, and even managing to extract a couple of days to lounge around in the vineyards, drinking wine and reading books and sneaking kisses between the long rows of grapevines. In Jaskier’s more melancholic moments he pens a song, lamenting how grapes only bloom in summer, and after that their only purpose is in easing the agony of lost love… </p><p>He wishes to linger in this peaceful summer for an eternity but eventually Oxenfurt calls him home. They decide to render the services of a mage again in order to portal back to Oxenfurt and thus extend their holiday in the sun – if they rode on horseback, it would take two months or so, but with the wave of a hand and a pouch full of coin, they can traverse the distance in mere moments. </p><p>The extra time allows for another lazy month in Toussaint where Jaskier models his new clothing and experiences for the first time what it’s like to always be perceived as a man. He preens every time a judge or bartender calls him ‘sir’ and keeps catching himself smiling at his reflection. One late summer eve, on the veranda with red wine and a setting sun, he admits to Geralt that he would prefer to be thought of this way all the time. Geralt gives him one of his rare soft smiles and later, in the privacy of their bedchambers, Geralt affirms the words against his skin, falling to his knees and sucking his dick so hard that Jaskier sees stars.</p><p>The time is also beneficial for his music, of course. Jaskier performs <em>Fiorano</em> for a dozen appreciative audiences, and hopes, like the many other love songs in his repertoire, that Geralt doesn’t understand their significance. </p><p>The summer would have been even more beneficial had Jaskier not lost to a cad named Le Papillon in the final performance of the festival. The student from Beauclair has much more ego than talent but was smart enough to compose a tiresome song about the beauty of Beauclair that appealed to the judges’ bland tastes. </p><p>Jaskier is bitter, and pissed, not least because he went through <em>three</em> chanterelle strings during this damn festival only to lose to the nonsensical lyric ‘the pastures ever so green reflect the beauty of our queen’. But then Geralt buys him a bottle of Fiorano straight from the vineyard and they go swimming in the Seidhe Llygad and make love under the stars, and by morning he’s successfully forgotten every terrible lyric of that damn patriotic song. </p><p>Eventually, though, it’s time to return to Oxenfurt. Jaskier is eager to return home, at the same time he is reluctant to leave. He has found true happiness in Toussaint. There is acceptance here, and music, and beauty… and, best of all, a handsome Witcher in his bed every night. Jaskier longs to return to his studies and he misses Valda dearly but he has become spoilt with Geralt’s company and dreads the thought of a cold empty bed, and months – perhaps years – before Geralt deigns to visit again. </p><p>When Oxenfurt appears on the horizon, Jaskier’s heart is heavy with sorrow. Geralt cannot stay the night – he has business in Novigrad he must attend to – but Jaskier at least convinces him that he cannot leave without seeing the beauty of Oxenfurt from the clocktower. Geralt gives in, whether at the callback to their first meeting, or from a genuine desire to stay, and he eagerly accepts the kisses from Jaskier as soon as they are behind closed doors.</p><p>*</p><p>Geralt is relieved when Jaskier conjures an excuse for privacy before they part ways. He is not sure if he could return to his solitary life on the road without even a kiss goodbye. The summer they shared had been exquisite; at once, both too much and not enough. He had seen Jaskier smile more than ever before, and had lain with him just as often. The happiness of those lazy summer days felt surreal, like a view through stained glass: he caught a glimpse of what could be on the other side, but he is not foolish to think that it reflects reality. There is no telling what Jaskier will want after Oxenfurt – if he’ll ever even <em>leave</em> Oxenfurt – and they could not afford to live as they have in any case. Their time in Toussaint was no more than a dream, but one that will keep him warm in the marshes of Velen in any case. </p><p>Geralt notes with some amusement that the clocktower is just as secluded as Jaskier has boasted at their first meeting. The disused ringing chamber below the steeple affords them plenty of privacy as Jaskier pushes him against the wall and kisses him deeply, and passionately, and very intentionally.</p><p>Geralt captures Jaskier’s hands as they begin to wander below his shirt. “I told you I cannot stay.”</p><p>Jaskier whines between kisses but dutifully recalls his hand, moving it to cup Geralt’s face instead as he is brought back for kiss after kiss. </p><p>Above them, the single bird in the belfry sings a mournful tune, as if it can sense the sorrowful parting beneath him.</p><p>“Will you return?” Jaskier whispers between kisses. There is a hesitance in his question; an uptick in his heartbeat and a sour turn in his scent that belies his nerves even as his outward affection does not cease.</p><p>After a summer spent in each other’s arms, Geralt no longer has the strength to deny the bond between them. They must part, for now, but he knows that as long as Jaskier is here, that he will return. “I will,” he vows, with another kiss. “But I do not know when I’ll be able to return. I do not expect you to remain faithful in the meantime.” <em>Or even still want me, should I return</em>.</p><p>Jaskier huffs a laugh between their lips. It’s true that while in Beauclair, Jaskier’s eyes rarely strayed, but Geralt doesn’t want to enforce monogamy on someone so naturally vivacious. They are not the archetypal lovers in Valdoria’s romance novels; Geralt does not care who Jaskier lays with in his absence as long as they treat him well. </p><p>“Well, thank fuck for that – I’ve got some practise to do, after all,” Jaskier says with a flirtatious wink.</p><p>The tease – the reminder that Jaskier intends to be taken from behind the next time they meet – causes Geralt to growl in lust and capture his lips once more. Jaskier has been teasing him all summer with this promise, and had asked for more and more, until he had been writhing on Geralt’s two widest fingers at the end of August. The implication that when Geralt returns, he might be greeted with the full act makes his mind clouded with lust. He loses minutes – many minutes – wrapped in Jaskier’s arms, until the bard’s clever calloused fingers are sneaking into Geralt’s trousers and bringing him swiftly to completion.</p><p>He gasps his pleasure against Jaskier’s neck and rides the waves the best he can, knowing it will be a long time before he is next afforded the privilege of Jaskier’s touch. </p><p>He returns the favour, rubbing Jaskier’s member hard and fast the way he likes, until he is panting loud enough to send the belfry bird flying from the rafters. </p><p>Afterwards, he catalogues Jaskier’s flushed cheeks, and parted mouth, and his heavy-lidded eyes, knowing that he will recall the image on many lonely nights. He has become spoiled with Jaskier’s attentions and knows that the sudden absence of them will be difficult to ease. </p><p>He doesn’t want to say goodbye; doesn’t want to hear that word between them. So, he kisses Jaskier one last time – soft, and tender – and vows once more to return, before he leaves the clocktower without another word. </p><p>*</p><p>Jaskier locates his new lodgings with a heavy heart. The winding avenues of Oxenfurt seem to welcome him with their golden leaves and gentle afternoon sunlight, and by the time he turns onto the southern isle and sees the halo of light embracing the Academy buildings, his heartbreak has eased into fondness. He feels as if he is torn between two lovers; his Witcher, and his home, and as painful as it was to part from one, it was still heartwarming to fall into the embrace of the other.</p><p>He requests the address and key from the clerk – who merely raises her eyebrow at a man collecting ‘Julia’s’ belongings – and then locates his new lodgings, the third on a terrace just off the main courtyard. He enters his new rooms to see a communal area, a long window with a view over the Pontar, and a bedroom either side. He feels tears build in his eyes and angrily blinks them away. His emotions are running so high that he no longer knows if the tears he yearns to cry are in joy or sadness. </p><p>He tosses his knapsack in the room where his trunks have already been delivered and sits on the stripped bed, staring at the empty rooms around him, and feeling those damn tears start to build again. </p><p>He shakes his head, determined not to let them fall, and leaves in search of a distraction. </p><p>*</p><p>Geralt approaches Novigrad at nightfall having ridden hard from Oxenfurt. His business here isn’t until the morning but he needed the ride to clear his head; it seems Roach did too as she whickers beneath him. He leans forward to pat her neck, thanking her for her hard work. It felt good to be on the road again. He had slacked in his duties over the summer, too distracted by Jaskier’s charm, but now he can lose himself in his work again. He revels in the mindspace of track-hunt-kill, loves the simplicity of it, and how the act of the hunt pushes every other thought from his mind. It makes him feel alive, and like he’s doing some good in the world, and there’s nothing quite like meditating beside the campfire with aching muscles and a sense of accomplishment. He knows he can conduct his business in Novigrad, collect some contracts, and then get lost in the wilderness of Velen for months on end without worry or grief. </p><p>No one to slow him down, or pester him for details, or beg for luxurious stays at inns… no one to gently tend to his injuries, or comb the gore from his hair, or soothe his sore muscles… no one to laugh with, and drink with, and lie with…</p><p>But, no matter. He will do his work. And afterwards – <em>afterwards</em> – he can crawl into Jaskier’s arms and let him kiss away the ache of parting. He has to believe that there is a warm welcome waiting for him. He has to. Or he’ll ride straight back to Oxenfurt. </p><p>“Come on, girl,” he says, tugging on the reins to steer Roach into the large city. “We’ve got work to do.”</p><p>*</p><p>Jaskier is pissed and performing at the Rosebud before midnight even strikes. It was a sign from the gods that his return to Oxenfurt coincided with Drag Night. He struts about on the stage in his new masculine attire but with an exaggerated swagger that is entirely Dandelion, and then he gives a very drunken, maudlin, and horny rendition of <em>Fiorano</em> with amended lyrics that ought never see the light of day – </p><p>“<em>And I’ll savour your seed like the taste of the finest wine, yes, every blowjob is Fioraaaaaanoooo</em>!”</p><p>Despite the questionable artistic standards, the song is certainly met with enough enthusiasm, and Jaskier steps off stage to cheers and a chorus of ‘welcome back, Dandelion!’ and even a compliment from Mother Licious herself.</p><p>“You should get your heart broken more often, little Dandelion,” she shouts across to him as he makes his way to the bar, “You look positively <em>radiant</em>!”</p><p>Jaskier laughs and orders his usual at the bar as the next entertainer steps on stage. He can’t remember the last time he got such a warm welcome here and is too drunk to try and parse the reason why. Instead, he taps his fingers on the bar and whines impatiently as the bartender gets distracted by a very good-looking patron. </p><p>However, it’s this delay in service that causes him to tune into the conversation happening beside him – </p><p>“– no, no, I totally get it. I was the same. The trick is not to think of it as anatomy. Like…” the patron flings their hand towards someone in the back corner, “Pablo, right? Definitely a dude. No one outside of this club knows any different. Been taking hartroot for frickin’ years.”</p><p>The patron’s friend is eagerly nodding along, and Jaskier risks a glance over in the direction of this ‘Pablo’ only to recognise him as the baker from the market. The observation throws Jaskier for a moment because he never before knew that the baker was like <em>him</em>. Jaskier didn’t know hart root tea could be so effective, but Pablo has a full beard, and a deep voice, and strong – very masculine – hands, and is... like... <em>him</em>. </p><p>“– but, see, his anatomy hasn’t changed from before. I mean, certain things might have lessened,” they say with a wave of hands over the chest, “and others… uh, <em>lengthened</em>, if you get my drift,” another hand towards the crotch, “but you can’t do a full switcheroo with just tea. It’s just impossible. Doesn’t make him any less of a man though, right?”</p><p>“Agreed,” the friend says. “So what’s your point?”</p><p>“Stop thinking of your vagina as a <em>vagina</em>. Your anatomy doesn’t define your gender.” The patron leans in, and Jaskier has to strain his ears to catch the words, “Trust me, if you can separate your idea of gender from actual body parts when he’s fucking you like that then you won’t feel so gross afterwards. Just think of it as –”</p><p>“An entrance that gives you pleasure.”</p><p>Jaskier realises too late that he spoke that out loud, as the two patrons turn to look at him. Luckily, they all seem too drunk to care about things like social boundaries. </p><p>“Sorry, I just –” Jaskier trails off, trying to track where the words come from. “It’s what I've thought during the act before. It helped.” He looks to the person who had been giving the advice with wide eyes, amazed that the simple answer may have been before him the whole time. Sometimes it feels good, sometimes it doesn’t, and Jaskier has never before been able to find the correlation. </p><p>“Right, exactly!” the patron tells their friend with a playful slap against the shoulder. “See, I told you! It’s no different than using your mouth or your rear. Your vag is just… a vessel for pleasure.”</p><p>“Does that work?” Jaskier can’t help but interrupt. “Thinking like that, I mean, does that work every time?”</p><p>They shrug. “In my experience, at least, but I don’t get too much in my head about it so…” they trail off with another shrug. </p><p>The bartender chooses this moment to reappear with Jaskier’s drink, and he takes it eagerly, before sliding into the empty stool next to the two patrons. “How? If you don’t mind me asking. I just mean… <em>how</em>?”</p><p>“Depends,” they tease with a raised eyebrow. “How good is the sex?”</p><p>Jaskier, rather accidentally, goes home with the both of them, and fucks out his sorrows with a phallus in his entrance and another in his mouth, and realises that it was an excellent piece of advice.</p><p>He stumbles down the streets of Oxenfurt in the early morning, giddy with this newfound knowledge, and the possibility of all he can do with Geralt when he eventually returns. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. Chapter 25</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dawn is breaking when Jaskier returns to his rooms at last and finds the pile of letters that he had ignored so thoroughly yesterday. A hangover is beginning to encroach on his tiredness and he really wouldn’t be bothered by the post except for the fact that he drunkenly manages to knock the damn stack off the table in his attempt to reach for the water bucket and between the course schedule and notes from the faculty, he also spies his <em>mother’s</em> handwriting – </p><p>Jaskier retrieves the letter from the array on the floor and studies it for a moment. The cursive script. The slant of the lettering. The deep blue ink. He turns it over and sees the Lettenhove wax seal on the reverse and a deep-seated fear settles within him.</p><p>Jaskier slides down onto the floor, knees drawn up to his chest and the table leg pressed against his back, and opens the envelope with shaking fingers. </p><p>
  <em>Julia,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>We were awfully disappointed to receive your letter at the start of summer stating your intentions to spend the season with that mutant friend of yours, as we had hoped to have this conversation in the privacy of our home. Your continual dismissal of our wishes, and now your stubborn refusal to return home, demonstrate a blatant disregard for your family, and now we have little choice but to treat you the same in return and deliver this severe news with mere parchment and ink as one would a stranger. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The matter is this: we have received countless tales of your exploits in Oxenfurt and have tried several times to reach out to you. Seeing as you continue to disgrace the family name with your particular lifestyle and choice of acquaintance with seemingly no regard for your future or family, you must surely understand the position that you put us in. We can no longer hope to marry you to a good family now you have sullied your reputation so thoroughly, and cannot afford to entertain your proclivities otherwise. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>You have always disparaged this life, sneered at the thought of nobility, and I can now happily inform you that you have at last freed yourself from its trappings. This will be the last letter you will receive from us, and the last coin that you will spend from our estate. Your lodgings and lessons have, unfortunately, already been taken care of for this upcoming academic year, but every morsel of food, and clothing, and joy, must now be purchased from your own hand. Perhaps then you shall understand all that your father and I have done for you. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I am not a heartless mother and would like to issue this one last plea – come home, vow to leave this nonsense behind you, and I may yet convince your father to change his tune. You are still engaged to that Hindsfeld boy, after all, and if you truly wish to redeem yourself, we may be able to negotiate the contract in light of your misdeeds. Frederick may even tolerate your musical pursuits in exchange for a handful of children. Your father says he’s a decent, mild-mannered fellow, and may be open to negotiation. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Consider your options wisely. If you do not return home by the first frost, then we can assume that your choices have been made.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Countess Maria Lettenhove</em>
</p><p>-</p><p>Jaskier sits there, numb, as the first tentative rays of dawn bloom into daylight. He is still there, in fact, when Valda arrives home, with two servants lugging a sizable piece of furniture behind her. </p><p>He startles at her intrusion but doesn’t have the strength to move, or even tidy his disheveled appearance, as he sits in the shadows of the table on the littered floor. He must look so gaunt that Valda does not even notice him at first – directing the men to deposit the settee against the wall and then sending them back for ‘the clothes chest’ – and it’s only when they’ve left to retrieve these further belongings that the room must be cleared enough for Valda to glimpse his sad state. </p><p>Valda gasps and covers her chest in shock. “Jaskier! You scared me! What are you doing sat on the floor like a pauper? You’ll wrinkle your clothing if you’re not careful.”</p><p>“A wrinkle in my doublet is the least of my concerns right now,” Jaskier mutters, and for lack of any better ideas, tosses the damn letter at her feet. “Read it for yourself.”</p><p>He watches as she stoops to collect the parchment with curiosity. She reads it with a frown, and then, when she’s done, she looks up with empathetic understanding. And then, curiously, she snarls and her fist crumples the letter in her hands. “Those vile, mean-spirited, ignorant –”</p><p>The men return and she censors herself just in time – a perfect countenance of polite charm sliding into place in the blink of an eye – but as soon as they leave, coin in hand, her rage returns as she paces the room with fury and raised arms.</p><p>Jaskier waits for her cursing to calm down, which, flatteringly, takes quite some time. Finally, she sags with a sigh, as if she’s just as exhausted by the ordeal as he is, and comes to sit beside him with her head on his shoulder and a frown on her face.</p><p>“What are you going to do?” she whispers, attempting to smooth out the wrinkled parchment between them. “You might be able to scrape by this year – and I’ll help of course – but next? Or would you leave? Abandon your studies? What would you do?”</p><p>Jaskier takes a moment to appreciate that Valda hasn’t even entertained the idea that Jaskier would go back to Lettenhove with his tail between his legs. The thought hasn’t even <em>occurred</em> to her. He smiles softly, oddly touched that she knows him so well, and knocks their shoulders together in the friendly manner that he has missed while parted from her. “I don’t know,” he admits, taking the crumpled letter from her hand and scanning the cursive script one last time. “But I suppose I must become a very profitable bard.”</p><p>Valda laughs; a genuine one, nowhere near as dainty and high-pitched as the one she puts on for her suitors. “I suppose so. <em>Fuck</em>,” she says with emphasis, “Jas, this is bullshit.”</p><p>“Yeah.” He huffs a laugh, and folds the letter very neatly before putting it to one side. “But at least I won the little wager I made myself.”</p><p>“What wager?” </p><p>“As to which one of us would return to Oxenfurt more brokenhearted,” Jaskier says with a teasing smile. “I do believe that being disowned by one’s family puts me ahead in terms of misery.”</p><p>“No. No way,” Valda bites back, eager now they’re back on familiar ground. “You don’t get to win this. <em>You</em> spent the summer smitten and laid, while I was at home, alone, dealing with tossers like this on a daily basis and being trotted out in front of middle-aged men like a pig at the market. I <em>definitely</em> win the misery stakes.”</p><p>Jaskier can at least concede that much and gets to his feet, forgetting the goddamn letter. “That reminds me of something,” he mutters, giving her a teasing smirk before dashing into his room and rifling through his knapsack in search of the gift.</p><p>Valda follows with a skip in her step and leans against the doorway, watching Jaskier’s harried movements with amusement. “What, exactly, did my maudlin, lonesome summer remind you of?”</p><p>Jaskier finds her present at last and brandishes it before her. “That you will be in need of this.”</p><p>Valda barks a laugh and swipes the toy from his hands. It’s a far smaller phallus than the Old Faithful they used last year; polished wood like their other but lighter in colour, five or so inches instead of nine, narrower too, but delightfully curved, with a good sturdy leather strap if you were inclined to wear it. “You went to the most romantic city on the Continent and came back with a <em>diletto</em>?”</p><p>“Yes,” Jaskier says with a straight face. “Is that a problem? Would you have preferred if I came back with a trite piece of jewellery?”</p><p>“No, not at all,” she murmurs, and turns around to rummage in her own little satchel, “especially seeing as it will go remarkably well with this.”</p><p>Jaskier catches the drawstring bag that is thrown to him and curiously draws out two bottles, one small, and the other three times its size, and after turning them over in his hands, watching the liquid flow from one side to the other, he looks up to Valda, none the wiser. </p><p>“There was a mage in Cidaris over summer,” she discloses with a smirk.</p><p>“I… don’t understand. This is magic? How?”</p><p>Valda shakes her head with laughter. “You’re so naïve, little flower, did you not have such devices in Lettenhove?”</p><p>“Humour me,” Jaskier says, because no, he doesn’t know what this is, and no, he is not going to admit that to Valda.</p><p>“It’s a sex potion,” she says, and Jaskier’s eyebrow raises. “You use the lotion in the large bottle to coat the area of something you want to feel – let’s say, this fine <em>diletto</em> here,” she says, waving the phallus around like a madman, “and the other ointment goes where you want to feel it… say…” her gaze falls down to Jaskier’s crotch, and suddenly he understands perfectly. </p><p>“Oh, fuck.”</p><p>“Mmm hmm.”</p><p>“You’re saying…” Jaskier says, taking the phallus out of her hand and holding the potion in the other, marvelling at the magic that they can apparently achieve in harmony. “I could…” It’s too good to be true, surely. “I could wear this,” he says (and now <em>he</em> is the idiot waving it around), “and feel it…”</p><p>“<em>There</em>, yes. You put the ointment on your clit, and the lotion on the phallus. It’s basically a dick in a bag.”</p><p>“Yes, thank you, I got that,” Jaskier says in a hurry, his eyes instinctively flickering towards the door as if those servants were going to come back through and take Valda’s filthy mouth back away from her. “How did you... ? <em>Why</em> did you…? <em>Valda</em>.”</p><p>He looks at her, and for the first time since Freshers Week, has the overwhelming desire to kiss her.</p><p>“Your doublet looks shit by the way,” she says with a wrinkled nose of disgust, before his ridiculous thought can turn into action. “Did you spend the whole night sleeping in it?”</p><p>“Not sleeping, but, yes,” he says absently, and then, before he can lose the nerve, “Valda, I think I’m a man.”</p><p>He startles at his own words, never before daring to speak them out loud. <em>I’m a man</em>. Three words that he has spent so long burying, and denying, and attempting to shape into something tangible, finally spoken, let free into the world, like a bird free from its cage. </p><p>“Well, obviously,” she says, and ducks out of the doorway. “I assume you want the first night with our dearest diletto but I want it tomorrow. It’s another three days before Thomas returns and I want to get laid.”</p><p>She leaves, and Jaskier is left with a phallus and a sex potion, and a sense of peace that he never knew existed. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>the delightful diletto here is the medieval fantasy version of the "magic space dildo" I wrote for <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/12188706/chapters/28148499">this Campaign Podcast PWP</a> and <em>yes</em> you will be seeing a lot more of it. thanks to starbit for reminding me that this was a goddamn thing. my god, could you imagine if I wrote this whole fic without introducing a magic penis?? what a wasted opportunity that would've been.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. Chapter 26</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm glad you all seem to be Valda fans because it's time for her storyline! please be aware that this does come with a content warning for abuse. this fic still is a fluffy one and won't go into too much detail but if this theme upsets you please just skip this chapter and next and know that Thomas Ocimus gets his comeuppance in a very amusing way. if you want to know more details before reading, hit me up in the comments and I'll answer your questions as soon as I can. &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I’m glad you told me, by the way,” Valda says, sipping her sugary cocktail. The barkeep at the riverside garden bar seems to have worked out that he can mix sparkling white wine with a sweet syrup and charge her double for the privilege. Jaskier, meanwhile, drinks the cheapest ale and scratches the cheap paper with his quill, trying to make ends meet in his yearly budget. Mathematics was never his strong suit. “I didn’t mean to be so blasé about it,” she continues, squinting up into the late summer sun, “but I’ve had my suspicions for so long that I was hardly surprised.”</p><p>Jaskier mentally lowers his budget for replacement strings and runs the numbers again. “That I’m a man?” Jaskier checks, flicking his eyes away from his work just long enough to see Valda nod with another dainty sip of her cocktail. “When did you, uh –” he hesitates, distracted by a difficult sum – “<em>suspect</em>?”</p><p>“Oh, about twenty minutes into our first meeting,” she says with coy amusement, twirling her hair around her fingers, “when you suggested you fuck me with a nine inch phallus.” Her smile is just about as filthy as that sentence had been. “That was a fairly good giveaway.”</p><p>“It was new,” Jaskier defends distractedly, returning to his papers to tally up the totals. “I wanted to try it.”</p><p>“You wanted to try a lot of things from what I remember,” Valda says with a flirtatious smile.</p><p>Flirtatious. Wait. Jaskier snaps his head up, sums forgotten. “Are you <em>flirting</em> with me?” he exclaims.</p><p>Valda, caught and flustered, removes her finger from her blonde curls. “No.”</p><p>“Yes, you are! I know that move! You did that to Geralt, even! The twirling hair, the batting of eyelashes, the…” he looks around him, at the scenic garden with the view of the Pontar and the ale before him that Valda offered to buy. “Valda, is this a <em>date</em>?!”</p><p>“Maybe?” she squeaks, and Jaskier groans. “Look! I’m horny, and you’re the only person in Oxenfurt who isn’t a total bore, and I hate to admit it – I do, because I hate you – but you make a very attractive man, and we’ve got the perfect set-up back at the dorm if you remember and…”</p><p>“Holy…” Jaskier closes his eyes and tries to make sense of the situation. He probably owes that tailor in Toussaint an additional tip at the very least. “You think I look… <em>good</em>?”</p><p>“Oh, fuck off, you egotistical hack. You know you look good. Are you going to take hart root?” she asks, eagerly assessing him with dreamy eyes and her chin perched on her hands. “You should do – if you want to, I mean.” </p><p>Jaskier flushes. He has thought about it. He keeps remembering how good Pablo looked at the Rosebud... the full beard and deep voice, and wondering if he would want to look the same... He thinks he might.</p><p>Valda, unaware of his inner turmoil keeps batting her eyelashes and prattling on, “Imagine how much sharper your cheekbones would be with a bit of tea…”</p><p>Jaskier knocks her hand from his cheek before it can even land. “You <em>really</em> need some alone time with Old Faithful, huh?”</p><p>Valda whines, “It’s not enough. I used it three times yesterday and –”</p><p>Jaskier makes a strangled noise and holds up his hands. “Please. Please, no more.”</p><p>“Oh, come on, I know you used my gift last night, I <em>heard</em> you –”</p><p>“Oh fuck.” Jaskier downs half his pint in distress. Admittedly, he enjoyed the diletto <em>greatly </em>last night. Squeezing the base, and stroking the shaft, and teasing the head, and feeling it just like he would an actual cock. It was <em>life altering</em>. He intends never to fuck any other way again.</p><p><em>Shit</em>.</p><p>Would <em>Geralt</em> let him fuck him like that?</p><p>The fantasy of Geralt touching his new cock was responsible for at least one of his orgasms last night but the thought that Geralt might let himself be <em>taken,</em> and that Jaskier would be able to <em>feel</em> it, has him shifting uncomfortably on the wooden bench even in the broad light of day. His mind is all too able to conjure the slack jaw and gasping expression Geralt makes when he comes and transplant it onto this wonderful new scenario. Geralt’s never so much as indicated he would enjoy being on the other end of things but Jaskier now deeply regrets that he never even <em>asked</em>. What would he sound like? What would it feel like? He recalls the feeling of his fingers in his hair, the way he clenches them when he’s close, tugging so delightfully…</p><p>“Jas?” Valda asks, snapping her fingers in front of his face. She sits back with an offended huff when he blinks back to awareness. “Honestly, I’m insulted,” she sneers, folding her arms petulantly, “Here I am, the most attractive woman in Oxenfurt, propositioning you, and you’re not even paying attention –”</p><p>“Lucy Candor,” Jaskier corrects absently.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“The most desired woman in Oxenfurt or whatever. It’s Lucy Candor, the young widow of the carpenter. The barkeep took a poll back in Spring. Lucy came out top.”</p><p>“You ranked the women in Oxenfurt by <em>fuckabilitiy</em>? That’s disgusting.”</p><p>“It was a pub of drunken fools at three in the morning, of course it was disgusting, and I said nothing about <em>‘fuckability’</em> thank you very much –”</p><p>“I’m <em>horny</em>!” she defends, loud enough to draw the attention of the husband and wife at the next table over.</p><p>Jaskier grimaces and raises his tankard to them in an awkward apology before turning back to Valda, who has since turned beetroot red and buried her head in her folded arms. Jaskier’s not sure if he’s seen her so distressed before and he finds it’s not something he particularly enjoys. Something like concern – nay, <em>affection</em> – churns in his gut.</p><p>“Thomas didn’t write to me,” she admits in a sullen monotone, the confession muffled by her folded arms. “Not once.”</p><p>Jaskier sighs softly, at once forgiving her for the entire inappropriate conversation now he’s understood its source, and reaches out to gently squeeze her hand in comfort. “I know,” he whispers in kind.</p><p>She sighs and tilts her head on her arms, pressing her red cheek against Jaskier’s hand. Her eyes flicker to Jaskier, and then away again. For a moment, all they do is watch the slow progress of the river and listen to the chatter around them; the whinny of horses, the distant bird song, the calming babble of the river.</p><p>He doesn’t know what to say, how to make this situation any less shitty. Then Valda sighs and says the absurd words: “His wife did though.”</p><p>Jaskier stares at her, open-mouthed and utterly flabbergasted as Valda digs herself out of her cocoon, her face reddened but less tear-streaked than he’d expected.</p><p>“I know, I know,” she says with a wince. She runs her fingers through her loose hair, effectively displacing the stray strands that had stuck to her skin during her bout of shame. “It’s fucking weird. But apparently she knows and –”</p><p>“Oh, <em>shit</em>,” Jaskier says, finally having found some words. “She <em>knows</em>?”</p><p>“Apparently,” Valda says, taking a large drink. Her cheeks are still flushed and Jaskier admits, if only to himself, that Lucy Candor’s got nothing on her. “She didn’t even blame me. Just said… oh, fuck it, read it for yourself –”</p><p>And then Valda’s shoving a letter under his nose, much like he had done yesterday. The parchment is small and crumpled, the neat but narrow handwriting barely legible between the wrinkles, as if the letter has been read many times in its short life.</p><p>
  <em>Valdoria,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Please excuse the impropriety of me writing to you like this. I know this is highly irregular but I found your letters amongst Thomas’s belongings and suspect you must be the woman responsible for his many late nights at the Academy. I don’t believe we have been formally introduced but my name is Flosimae Ocimus, née Hortus, and you may know me as the florist by the western bridge. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Thomas and I met, you see, through our love of nature. He used to stop by in his lunch hour and suggest that I ought to try planting my peonies at a different time of year, or use different soil for my irises… naturally, I corrected him on all these accounts, but he is a man with passions who is difficult to sway. I only wished I recognised the ramifications of these stubborn traits before I agreed to marry the man. He is charming, and clever, as well you know, and I normally feel no need to interfere with his affairs, seeing as they are fleeting things of immaterial nature for the most part, but with you… I worry. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I have heard word of you, Valdoria, even at the bridge. I hear that you are young, and intelligent, and beautiful, and have great potential in your musical pursuits. If even half of these rumours are true then I suspect that the gossipmongers are also correct in their belief that Thomas is considering you as a wife. As much as I wish to be free of this man, I cannot put him upon you unawares. Please, Valdoria, consider this a warning, and distance yourself from him before he takes your love as an invitation. You don’t want to see what he is like behind closed doors. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I hope you do not take offense to my plea. My warning is meant kindly and without motivation. If you choose to dismiss this letter then that is your prerogative but I beg that you do not share it with our mutual acquaintance. He would be very disappointed in me indeed.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yours, in trusted confidence,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Flosimae.</em>
</p><p>“Well that’s ominous,” Jaskier agrees, passing back the letter to its owner. “Do you believe her? That this is born from concern and not jealousy?”</p><p>“I asked myself the same thing, but she appears genuine, and I don’t know why she would lie about such a thing,” Valda says as she tucks the letter out of sight again.</p><p>“You think she’s being abused,” he whispers with a furtive glance at his surroundings. He had intended it to be a question but somewhere between the idea forming and the idea being spoken, the concept seemed far more likely than he had wanted to entertain. He has seen bruises on Valda’s skin, and witnessed Thomas’ claim over her, and had excused his possessive behaviour as passion. Now Jaskier wonders if there might be something more sinister lurking beneath.</p><p>Valda drinks a sizable amount of her drink before turning back to Jaskier. “I’ve seen glimpses,” she admits with a wince. “I didn’t want to admit it to myself, but I have. I think…” she taps her nails restlessly against the table, before her eyes flicker once more to Jaskier. “I think I know why she fears him so. Why she wants to leave. I’ve seen the monster she speaks of – or its shadow, at least.”</p><p>“Then refuse him,” Jaskier says bluntly, not understanding the hesitancy.</p><p>Valda worries her lip with her teeth. “It’s not that simple. I ought to, I know, but it’s that damn charm of his. I just know I’ll see him again, and he’ll…” she sighs, and the sound is caught somewhere between wistful and regretful. “I’ll jump into bed with him before I’m even conscious of it. Especially if I go to him this bloody horny. <em>Fuck</em>,” she bemoans, flushing again as she tries to hide her head in her hands.</p><p>The sight of Valda so ashamed of her desire is extremely unsettling and causes yet another curious emotion to flare within him. The second sensation in so many minutes does rather affirm the distressing fact that he apparently <em>cares</em> about Valda.</p><p>Jaskiers rubs his forehead, trying to ease the oncoming headache. He sighs, and stands with his hand held out towards her. “Fine, let’s fuck.”</p><p>“What?” she asks, shocked, but taking his hand nevertheless.</p><p>“If you’re worried about jumping into bed with Thomas then you can’t go to him this strung up. We’ll fuck it out of you first.”</p><p>“But I…” she hesitates, looking up at him with wide eyes before they skitter away. “I don’t want you,” she admits in a cracked whisper.</p><p>“I know,” Jaskier says just as sincerely, taking her hand and gently tugging her towards him until their heads rest together. “You want <em>him</em>. And I want a Witcher who’s probably halfway across the Continent by now. But all we have is each other. If you just wanna get pissed, that’s fine, if you want me with you when you face him, that’s fine too, or, if you wanna fuck –”</p><p>“I wanna fuck.”</p><p>“Okay, then we’ll fuck.”</p><p>-</p><p>Jaskier straps on the phallus and watches the lotion disappear onto the polished wood, just as miraculous as last time. He revels in the tingle that travels down the phallus towards his clit – or, rather, his <em>dick</em> – as the magic takes effect, and sighs in delight at the first pass of his hand over his hard member.</p><p>Valda barely waits for the potion to take effect before she falls to her knees and eagerly takes Jaskier into her mouth.</p><p>“Oh. Oh fuck, that’s good,” he sighs as he threads his fingers through her hair.</p><p>He resents that it’s Geralt’s face that flickers before him as the pleasure begins to take hold; that the hair in his hands is too curly, that the body under his is too curvy, that the lips beneath his are too dainty, and the scent of her perfume entirely too sweet.</p><p>The only solace is that Valda must be thinking much the same about him.</p><p>They fuck for hours, brutally and desperately, until they are rendered too exhausted to think of their missing lovers, and then, as the sun dips below the horizon, Jaskier holds Valda in his arms as she finally begins to cry.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>just a quick note to say: don't panic! that'll be the one and only time they fuck and only as friends. this is still geralt/jaskier to the end. valda and jaskier just have a rather <em>complex</em> friendship.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0027"><h2>27. Chapter 27</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>quick note: a massive thank you to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/KawaiiKoala34/profile">KawaiiKoala34</a> for joining our little team as a sensitivity reader &lt;3 they pointed out that some readers might like to know <a href="https://docs.google.com/document/d/1dGMfq1CYApIhEQUDD0Yams_PInC1g5oIpd0aBlPgjFs/edit?usp=sharing">Jaskier's planned transition narrative</a> in advance. there are some necessary spoilers within the document so please be mindful not to spoil those who have chosen not to read it. it's now linked at the start of the fic and I'll do my best to update it as we go along.</p><p>a quick head's up that there's some immature jokes about penis size in this chapter owing to the fact Thomas Ocimus has a lot of pride about his manhood and it's previously been stated that it's the only thing Valda actually likes about the man. obviously, it doesn't matter what you've got under your pants and Valda will realise that soon but, uh, just bear with her immaturity for now? she's under a lot of pressure, yo.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Valda cries for hours; great wracking sobs that shock the bed with their gravity, but by morning she is back to her annoying shrill self as she hits Jaskier repeatedly with a pillow. “Get up, you lazy shit. We’re going to the bridge.”</p><p>Jaskier groans and buries his head back under the covers. They were up until dawn. Valda cannot possibly be this awake at… Jaskier squints out the window. Oh. Late afternoon. Okay. His stomach rumbles as if to remind himself that all he ate last night was stolen fruit eaten from between Valda’s legs. A fact that now seems rather humiliating in the broad light of day.</p><p>She hits him with the pillow again.</p><p>“I’m up! I’m up!” he defends, and stumbles out of bed. “Fuck, why did I sleep with you? You’re so <em>mean</em>.”</p><p>“Trust me, it wasn’t a great accomplishment of my life either. Your morning breath is truly awful.”</p><p>Jaskier blindly searches for his specialist vest from Toussaint and finds it, at last, stuffed between the bedframe and the mattress. Ah, yes, from when he’d looped the vest straps around Valda’s wrists to act as restraints. That probably strained the delicate fabric more than was wise. He unfolds it and stretches the moonlight experimentally. It still seems viable. </p><p>He puts it on and smooths out the padding and when he next looks up, Valda is brandishing a sweet pastry presumably stolen from the cafeteria. </p><p>“Oh, thank fuck,” he says, stuffing it in his mouth as he continues dressing, suddenly very willing to forgive Valda for her every transgression. “The bridge, you say?” he asks when he’s decent. “To see the wife?”</p><p>“Flosimae, yes,” Valda corrects, and coifs her hair. </p><p>When Jaskier’s finished dressing, he finally notices that Valda’s standing before him in her best dress; the deep blue one that emphasises her sapphire eyes with delicate lacing around the collar and an embroidered hem that probably made a seamstress weep. If that weren’t enough, Valda is also modelling her best jewellery, spritzing her floral perfume, and has styled her blonde hair in loose curls that fall artfully around her shoulders.</p><p>Jaskier shakes his head with amusement. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were out to seduce the poor woman.”</p><p>“I want to make a good impression, Jas,” she defends, with one last look at her reflection in their dormitory window. “I don’t want her to think that I’m just some lowly bardic student.”</p><p>“But you <em>are</em> just a –”</p><p>Valda’s fingers press against his lips, effectively silencing him. “Are you coming or not?”</p><p>Jaskier sighs, and stoops to pick up his satchel. “Fine. But I’m only coming for the gossip. ”</p><p>Valda rolls her eyes and holds the door open for him. “Of course you are, you self-absorbed prick.”</p><p>“I dunno,” Jaskier says with a wink, “You seemed pretty <em>absorbed</em> with it last night.”</p><p>Valda squirms away from his grasping hand with a crinkled nose and noise of disgust that only makes Jaskier’s victory more sweet. He lets her escape his clutches with a laugh and notes the slight skip in her step as she strides down the hall ahead of him. He smiles privately to himself at seeing her so unburdened, and follows in her stead, anticipating whatever news awaits them on the western bridge. </p><p>-</p><p>Flosimae Ocimus is beautiful, and fiercely intelligent, and definitely their type. He doesn’t know which one of them is falling in love with her faster as the Professor’s wife discloses her situation. Flosimae – “please, darlings, call me Floss,” – is nearly as tall as Jaskier, with sharp and angular cheekbones that would make an artist cry, and dark skin that is positively <em>radiant</em>. She is exquisitely dressed in colours as bright as her flowers, and her make-up is so stunning that Valda ends up interrupting their rather serious discussion to take notes on exactly how she can achieve such an intense rouge – “Oh, do you like it? I make it myself from dried safflower flowers,” – (Jaskier notes, with some amusement, that Floss’s cheeks seem to brighten further under Valda’s earnest praise.) </p><p>But then, they begin to talk in earnest about Thomas Ocimus, and the way her entire countenance changes when they discuss her husband breaks his heart. Floss turns oddly shy and pallor, as if his very existence drains her of colour. Valda takes her hand. Jaskier looks away when their eyes flicker towards each other, never quite meeting.</p><p>-</p><p>“She’s telling the truth,” Valda concludes on their way back to the dormitory. “He’s hurting her and I… we need to do something.”</p><p>Jaskier grimaces and says his piece as softly as he can, “Valda, he’s a senior professor at the Academy. We’re just two lowly students. They’d believe him over us, you know they would. We’d risk being expelled for even suggesting that he’s hurting students –”</p><p>“A song,” she exclaims suddenly, stopping in her tracks and turning to him with palpable excitement. “You built your Witcher’s reputation with one, I can destroy theProfessor with one. If it’s a song – if it’s <em>folklore</em> – then they wouldn’t know it came from us… not for certain, anyway. We can spread it around campus, make sure there’s no author attached, and everyone would know his misdeeds by morn. The Academy would <em>have</em> to take action when faced with such wide-spread accusations. It would make them look too bad otherwise and the Dean is all about protecting the ‘reputation of this fine institution’,” she says, in a fine impersonation of the humourless Dean. “If we do this right,” she says, eyes bright and sparkling with mischief, “then  Professor Ocimus could be ousted before term even <em>commences</em>.” </p><p>“Well, okay, now you’re just vastly overestimating your abilities. It takes a true master to turn the tide and sway the audience so succinctly. <em>Toss A Coin</em> is a masterpiece of my own design, it took months to perfect, and there’s no way you could just –”</p><p>“<em>Thomas Ocimus has it all figured out,</em>” she sings, beautiful and annoyingly catchy, “<em>Fucks the student then comes home to the spouse. If you only saw behind closed doors, you would cry: the rose has thorns</em>.”</p><p>“Well that’s, I mean, you don’t know that that would work with a crowd –”</p><p>Valda jumps onto the nearest shipment crate and begins bellowing, “<em>Oh, Thomas Ocimus is an abusive prick! Don’t get fooled by his enormous dick! Buy a phallus and just have done! Girls, don’t put up with such rotten scum!”</em></p><p>“Great, so we’re doing this,” Jaskier mutters, and then, because he’s a good friend, jumps up beside her and joins her in the repetition of the chorus. “<em>Oh, Thomas Ocimus is an abusive prick! Don’t get fooled by his enormous dick! Oust him from the Academy or the students strike! Don’t piss off girls who know how to fight!</em>”</p><p>And the milling villagers around them, miraculously, start to join in. </p><p>-</p><p>The Dean looks down at them with his beady grey eyes and narrow nose. The Raven of Oxenfurt, as the poem goes, the one whispered fearfully between first years in dormitories – <em>careful not to catch the raven’s eye, he’ll send you home for a single lie, when he comes prowling, you’d better get hiding, else bid us all a final goodbye </em>– Jaskier has never much cared for the childish limerick but now he’s sat in the Dean’s office, pinned under that cold calculating gaze, he can certainly understand why no one could think of a better rhyme than ‘goodbye’. This does rather feel like one.  </p><p>“I should write to your parents –”</p><p>Jaskier snorts at the ludicrous idea that he would care one whit what his parents would have to say, but for Valda this is a much more serious threat and she squeaks in alarm. “Please, sir, I told you already, we didn’t write it –” </p><p>“Codswallop,” he says firmly, folding his arms and staring down at them. “My reports say the first instance of the song was heard down by the docks, and that it was, and I quote, ‘that queer fellow and the shrill girl’. I believe that description matches the troublesome twosome sat before me quite well, wouldn't you say?”</p><p>Jaskier swallows his nerves, risking a glance across at Valda. He has already been disowned, and he will likely be unable to afford his education the next year, so it’s really inconsequential if he does get expelled. Valda, however…</p><p>“I wrote it, sir.”</p><p>The Dean’s eyes narrow at Jaskier’s confession.</p><p>“I know it’s not up to my usual standards,” he says, unable to resist the dig at Valda’s mediocre songwriting, “but I wrote it in a hurry, and I’d say it was quite effective, no? I don’t know a soul in Oxenfurt that hasn’t heard it by now, and all within a week. I mean, if anything, you ought to be giving me extra credit for –”</p><p>“No,” he says firmly. Then, he strokes his mustache and looks out the window and the Pontar far below them. Jaskier wonders briefly if any student has ever jumped the six stories from his office just to escape his wrath. It is <em>almost</em> tempting. “Your little ditty did have the intended effect, I’m sure you’ll be pleased to hear. Professor Ocimus handed in his resignation this morning and is apparently on his way to Novigrad, leaving his poor, humiliated wife behind...”</p><p>Jaskier catches Valda rolling her eyes and has to agree: last he heard, Floss hadn’t minded at <em>all</em> that they publicly disparaged her husband. </p><p>“...and us without a Head of Botany, of course.” The Dean sighs, as if <em>this</em> is the great tragic end to the tale and not the six women who have since bravely stepped forward to speak of the Professor’s abuse. “If you could excuse me a minute,” he says, shuffling the papers on his desk, “I believe I just heard one of the candidates outside.”</p><p>Jaskier exhales loudly in relief as soon as the door has closed behind them and the familiar sound of muffled academic chit-chat filters in under the door. </p><p>“You didn’t have to do that,” Valda whispers to him.</p><p>“Trust me, I’m just as upset about it as you are,” Jaskier says, as he darts a look between the closed door and the open cabinet of papers beside the Dean’s desk. “Now that horrendously simple song will be ascribed to my esteemed body of work for the rest of time.” </p><p>“What are you doing?” Valda whispers sharply as he levers himself off the chair and tiptoes round to the cabinet. </p><p>“Shhh,” he whispers, straining his ears to beyond the door again. “Keep an ear out for me.”</p><p>“<em>Jaskier</em> –”</p><p>He glares and presses his finger against his lips. Then, finally, he finds what he’s looking for and pulls it out with a flourish. </p><p>“That’s the class register,” she says with wide eyes. “What are you doing?” she near-shrieks as Jaskier places it on the desk and reaches for the Dean’s quill. “Are you <em>insane</em>? We’re already in trouble. Jas. <em>Jas</em>. Get back down here!”</p><p>Her eyes are darting between Jaskier and the door, but he’s hardly paying attention as he watches the ink dry before him. One single consonant and it makes a world of difference. </p><p>Not <em>Julia</em>, but <em>Julian</em>.</p><p>He smiles down at his new name, feeling warm and happy in a way that is starting to feel familiar, but he’s not quite done. Hurriedly, he returns the file to the cabinet and reaches for another drawer instead, the one marked ‘Student Records’. </p><p>“Jaskier, you don’t have time –”</p><p>“In for a penny,” he mutters as he finds the relevant folder and pulls out the file named ‘Pancratz, J’. </p><p>Changing the ‘sex’ on his file is the most challenging issue but one not-so-accidental inkblot over the ‘fe’ of ‘female’ seems to suffice just fine. He returns to his chair, victorious and elated. <em>Male</em>. He’s officially <em>male</em> – or, at least as far as Administration is concerned.</p><p>Jaskier revels in his victory for only a few seconds before the door creaks open again and he straightens in his chair, working tremendously hard to keep the ear-splitting grin off his face. </p><p>Raven eyes scrutinise the two of them as the Dean rounds the desk. Jaskier holds his breath when he realises that in his hurry, he did not return the quill to the inkpot. Jaskier subtly shifts in his seat, digging his ink-stained fingers deeper into his pockets, and prays to every god he can think of that the Dean doesn’t notice the aberration. </p><p>The Dean picks up the displaced quill with a frown. Jaskier’s heart pounds. The Dean narrows his eyes and opens his mouth to speak when Valda shouts –</p><p>“It was me!”</p><p>Jaskier stares at her in shock, but Valda has not ceased her defense – “I had a sudden moment of inspiration and borrowed your quill to jot it down. I’m so sorry! Artists, you know? We’re all such impulsive lunatics! Look, it’s right here!” She delves into her purse and retrieves a scrap of paper with smudged ink that luckily appears to be the same colour as the inkwell on the desk. “<em>Irises have never been so vivid, roses have never smelled as sweet –”</em></p><p>Jaskier attempts to tamper down on his amusement when he realises exactly who might have inspired such a floral love song. “<em>Anyway</em>,” Jaskier says, before Valda can dig herself any deeper into his pit of embarrassment, “All’s well that ends well, no? You seem pleased with the new Botany candidate.”</p><p>“Hmm,” the Dean says, and looks between them carefully with narrowed eyes. “Yes, I believe Professor Arbor will fit in just fine.”</p><p>Miraculously, the Dean lets them go with no more than a formal warning and a threat for a future suspension if he ever catches them spinning another filthy ditty. He can live with that. The knowledge that ‘raven’ rhymes with ‘tavern’, and ‘dean’ with ‘clean’, and ‘beady’ with ‘seedy’ will just have to be knowledge that he takes to the grave. </p><p>-</p><p>That night, the three of them – Jaskier, Valda, and Floss – get outrageously drunk at that garden bar and when a handful of his other survivors find them and toast to Ocimus’s demise there may be a little reprise that will hopefully never reach the Dean’s ears – </p><p>
  <em>Good riddance to that piece of shit, with a very mediocre dick, may his name wither and die, may he never harm another fly, good riddance to that piece of shit, good riddance to that piece of shit. </em>
</p><p>– Jaskier is still humming the song that night as he lies in Valda’s bed, watching his friend fall asleep with a soft tentative smile on her face.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>tbh I have written Valda's song but you may as well just imagine a "Jolene" style take-down because that's not far off</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0028"><h2>28. Chapter 28</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Geralt has been in Novigrad for two weeks when he first hears Jaskier’s song. At first, he wonders if his constant thoughts of the bard have actually transmuted into music until he recognises that the pronunciation of ‘Geralt’ isn’t quite right. He casts his eyes around the Kingfisher until he catches sight of the female bard standing on a corner table with her sweet voice singing about the dangers of travelling with a Witcher.</p><p>Olivier, the barkeep, raises an eyebrow at his distraction. “Since when are you famous, Witcher?”</p><p>Geralt tears his eyes away from the woman strumming her lute and turns back to their game, throwing down a weather card to freeze Olivier’s line of vampire cards. “Recently, it seems.”</p><p>Geralt tries to keep his mind on his cards but the familiar song is hard to drown out –</p><p><em>For when the White Wolf fought<br/>
</em> <em>A fork-tailed devil<br/>
</em> <em>Hard scales of gold<br/>
</em> <em>And his talons to level</em></p><p><em>He came after me<br/>
</em> <em>With poison to defeat</em><br/>
<em>He slashed at my arm<br/>
</em> <em>And he kicked in my teeth</em></p><p>When Olivier plays a dragon card that scorches Geralt’s entire row of close combat cards, he tries not to visibly wince. The song is exaggerated, of course; the draconid that they had encountered at the start of summer had barely scratched Jaskier but even that small injury had been enough to send Geralt’s heart pumping. The sight of Jaskier’s pale and frightened face, the stench of blood and fear…</p><p>Geralt packs up his cards in defeat. He resents playing against the Monsters deck on a good day, yet alone with that the memory of that difficult day resounding in his head.</p><p>The patrons are starting to notice him as the bard keeps singing of Witchers and heroics. Geralt attempts to hide behind his tankard of ale as Olivier leaves to serve the drunkard at the end of the bar but it’s no use, the moniker ‘White Wolf’ seems to follow him everywhere these days.</p><p>It is curious, though, that the name is spoken without the stench of fear that he is used to. He tries to recall the last time someone had called him ‘Butcher’ and realises that it has not happened more than thrice since the start of summer. And then, didn’t that child cheer at his approach the other day? He thought it was a coincidence; that perhaps there was a bird or a butterfly in the vicinity. Now he’s starting to think that it’s not a coincidence at all, and neither was being paid two hundred crowns for a measly pack of ghouls, or the high number of well paid contracts that he’s been able to find in this singular city, or the discounts at the blacksmiths, or the warm blanket he was bestowed by the fishmonger’s wife…</p><p>Geralt downs the rest of the pint as the bard rouses the scant crowd into the familiar chorus and the realisation hits him that it <em>worked</em>. Jaskier said he would change his fortune with his song and he <em>has</em>.</p><p>“Fuck,” he growls, and reaches for his second pint. The realisation is too much to bear, as is the sudden swirl of emotion in his chest. Fondness? Pride?</p><p>Before he can analyse the complex array of emotions tangling within him, the drunk at the end of the bar roars to life, interrupting his musings.</p><p>The man hurls his tankard towards the bard with a wordless shout that stuns the entire mid-afternoon bar into silence. “You dare play the song of that fucking queer scum!” he yells, approaching the musician fast but unsteady with a bread knife clutched in his hands. “Do you know what she <em>did</em> to me?!”</p><p>Geralt jumps from his stool and has the man pinned against the wall with his own knife pressed against his throat before he can get anywhere close to the stage. “‘He,’” Geralt corrects absently on Jaskier’s behalf. It’s been a while since Jaskier has been misgendered so blatantly which implies that this fool of a man is doing it on purpose. Geralt snarls and presses the knife a little closer to his throat.</p><p>The smell. He recognises that smell. Beneath the copious amounts of alcohol, the man smells like… soil? The scent reminds him, bizarrely, of Valdoria Marx.</p><p>The Kingfisher bard gets there before he does, interrupting the tense scene with a peal of high-pitched laughter. “Oh, don’t tell me we have the honour – the subject of the poet Jaskier’s most popular song? And now of his <em>latest</em>?” She laughs again, and strums a chord. “My fellow patrons, if you have not yet heard this delightful ditty, please allow me enlighten you as to the identity of this drunken menace –”</p><p>The man struggles against Geralt’s grip, spitting and cursing, and Geralt still has no idea what’s going on until the bard sings the man’s name.</p><p><em>Thomas Ocimus</em>.</p><p>Geralt huffs a laugh of disbelief, unable to rectify the image of the preening professor he saw briefly at Oxenfurt with the scruffy drunkard in his hands. As he listens to the performer detail the man’s crimes (in language definitely not suitable for a lunchtime audience) he wonders how the Botany Professor escaped Oxenfurt at all. Then, he observes the numerous bruises and cuts across his unshaved cheeks and smirks. No wonder he didn’t recognise the man – his once-fine clothes are torn and ragged, his pale skin is dark with dust, and the bags under his eyes signal just how restless his sleep has been as of late.</p><p>Geralt smirks. Jaskier has been very busy indeed; it has only been two weeks since they parted ways and already this new song has chased Ocimus out of Oxenfurt and into the next city. It seems his bard has destroyed this man’s reputation just as quickly and effectively as Jaskier had built his. He is proud. And severely angry on Valdoria’s behalf. He quells the urge to beat the man senseless and instead drags him to the door of the inn, knowing that a physical assault would pale in comparison to the punishment already decided for him.</p><p>“You should leave,” Geralt says, with a none-too-kind nudge out the door. “And I wouldn’t advise coming back. I imagine the women of Novigrad wouldn’t hesitate to castrate you if they caught word of your misdeeds.”</p><p>The man grumbles something under his breath that implies it’s already too late for such advice as he lands flat on his arse in Hierarch Square.</p><p>Geralt watches with amusement, and still with that odd sense of pride, as the man stumbles through the market, ducking from curses and rotting fruit alike.</p><p>“May the fucker fade into obscurity,” Geralt mutters, thinking of the frown on Jaskier’s face every time he wrote to Valdoria over summer.</p><p>Olivier leans against the open doorway as the once proud professor disappears from sight. “So this ‘Jaskier’? Friend of yours?”</p><p>-</p><p>Geralt requests paper and ink from Olivier, and it’s only when he retires to his room – which he realises he can only afford thanks to Jaskier’s efforts – he wonders how on earth to convey the depth of his gratitude to his bard.</p><p>
  <em>Jaskier –</em>
</p><p>A good, strong start he thinks. Then, he re-evaluates and wonders if he ought to make it more personal. <em>My Jaskier</em> – he thinks, and then immediately dismisses. He has no claim to the bard; a fact that he keeps having to remind himself of. Jaskier is not <em>his</em> as much as he would desire him to be.</p><p>
  <em>Jaskier – </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I write to you from my room at the Kingfisher. I will be departing Novigrad shortly but wished to tell you how well I have been treated – </em>
</p><p>Geralt cringes and hovers the quill over the last line, debating its erasure, before he realises that he can think of no better.</p><p>
  <em>– amongst its peoples, not least because of your song. For the first time in years, they call me Wolf and not Butcher. It seems that your efforts to amend my reputation have been successful. </em>
</p><p>He hesitates again, unsure how to convey his gratitude for the roof over his head, for the food in his belly, for a warm stable for Roach. Perhaps the truth is the best he can do. He licks his lips thoughtfully and returns the quill to the page –</p><p>
  <em>I do not quite know how to thank you, only that I must. You have changed my fortune with your song, as you promised, and if anyone ever doubted your talent as a bard, they have no reason to doubt any longer. </em>
</p><p>Geralt pauses again, noting that there is still half of the paper lying empty. Normally this wouldn’t bother him – he’s not the most loquacious person, after all – but he doesn’t want Jaskier to think he has nothing else to say when there are a <em>hundred</em> things he wants to say. He wants to tell him about the kikimore in the sewer, and the luthier he found on the Northern Isle, he wants to ask after Valda, and Jaskier’s studies, and enquire if the Academy are respecting his choices. He wants to tell him about the dream he had last night – blue eyes looking down on him like dual moons in the night sky – he wants to say <em>I wish you were here</em> and <em>I can’t wait to see you </em>but knows that he is too cowardly to voice such sentimental desires.</p><p>He dips the quill in the ink as he tries to condense these conflicting emotions into words.</p><p>
  <em>If you wish to write to me, I plan to pass through the Inn at the Crossroads (Velen) within a fortnight. I would like to hear the story of your new song, if you are amenable. You and your roommate will be pleased to know that I crossed paths with the man in question and he was in dire straits indeed. I would also like to know about your wellbeing, in general, for I think of you often –</em>
</p><p>Geralt cringes and decides he really ought to end this letter before he says anything even more regrettable.</p><p>– <em>and suspect it may still be some months until we are reunited. You would have enjoyed the kikimore I slew recently, though the location was rather unsavory. </em></p><p>
  <em>Yours – </em>
</p><p>“Fuck,” Geralt swears, wondering how he could be so foolish. He had spent the entire letter carefully not alluding to any commitments or expectations or declarations, and then he mindlessly writes ‘yours’ with a damn comma after it, like it was a sentence in and of itself. He sighs, and after realising there is no feasible way to amend his mistake, accepts his fate and signs –</p><p>
  <em>Yours,<br/>
</em>
  <em>Geralt.</em>
</p><p>-</p><p>Geralt is patting down Roach that evening, attempting to push aside his thoughts of Jaskier. He thought that penning the letter would ease the ache for a little while, but if anything, it only made the ache more potent.</p><p>Geralt has conjured a dozen excuses to return to Oxenfurt during the last fortnight and dismissed them all. Jaskier’s education is important to him. No doubt he’s charming fellow students into bed, and being crowned superior for his new portfolio of work, and, all in all, being far too busy to notice Geralt’s absence.</p><p>“What do you think, Roach?” he asks, absently checking her shoes. They’ve got a big contract ahead of them and he doesn’t want her throwing a shoe halfway up the rocky isles north of Novigrad. “Perhaps he won’t even be in Oxenfurt to receive the letter. He seemed keen to investigate hart root and I don’t know if there’s a trained alchemist in the city. He might have to go to the herbalist across the river. Or to Novigrad, I suppose,” Geralt muses, as if the thought had not been lingering at the edges of his mind all fortnight long; as if the very notion wasn’t responsible for his reluctance to leave the city.</p><p>Geralt huffs a laugh, remembering that night in Beauclair when Jaskier reached for a handful of wet sand on the shore of Seidhe Llygad and smeared it across his chin in an imitation of a beard. He seemed so happy. Geralt shakes his head, dismissing the memory and the warm feeling it brings with it. “I should have asked. He might not even know where to go for that blend. Not many are trained in the craft. I ought to have mentioned the alchemist on the docks.”</p><p>Roach snorts, uninterested, and flicks her tail as if he’s as much nuisance as a fly.</p><p>Geralt huffs and tends to her nonetheless, his mind straying to fantasies of Jaskier with stronger arms and a sharper jaw, greeting him in that fitted doublet with a flat chest and bright eyes and that captivating smile. Wondering if there will be stubble around those soft lips – real this time; enough to scratch against his own – and if his voice will be deeper when he growls out his pleasure…</p><p><em>Fuck</em>.</p><p>He shakes himself out of it. He has had many fantasies since parting ways – some innocent, and some explicit, and some worryingly verging on the domestic. Sometimes Jaskier’s appearance has changed, sometimes not. It makes no difference to his lustful mind; he just wants <em>Jaskier</em>, however he may be. But it is becoming a distraction and he desperately needs a way to sate his desire.</p><p>“Alright, Roach,” he says, patting her flank. “Just one last stop, then we’ll be on our way.”</p><p>Roach stamps her feet, like she knows where Geralt’s going to cure his ails and doesn’t approve. He throws her an extra apple as a bribe. This ought to be a long, profitable contract, and he won’t be distracted by something as insignificant as his <em>libido</em>, especially now that he has the coin to see remedy such a thing in an effective manner.</p><p>-</p><p>He walks to the disreputable tavern on the docks of Novigrad and throws down some coin in front of the madame. “I need someone with a cock who knows how to use it.”</p><p>She raises an eyebrow at the unusual request but pockets the coin nonetheless. “I’ve got just the thing for you, darling.”</p><p>She does, in fact, have just the thing. A man nearly as tall as himself, lithe and soft around the edges, but with a sizable member and a cocky smile that reminds him bittersweetly of the man he left behind.</p><p>It’s been a long time since Geralt could afford professional services. He used to take his time – flirt, tease, do whatever he could to make the courtesan feel at ease – but he fears that he will lose his nerve if he doesn’t declare his wishes immediately. He strips with purpose and lies face down on the bed, invitation clear as he throws the courtesan a bottle of oil.</p><p>“Oh,” the worker says, confused, “You want me to –?”</p><p>“Yes,” Geralt says, biting out the words, like he hasn’t spent the last fortnight wondering why the fuck he didn’t ask Jaskier to do this to him. Jaskier had a phallus with him in Toussaint; Geralt saw him sneak it into his bag. He could have said something. But he didn’t. And now the idea has been haunting him for weeks. He so rarely indulges in his act; rarely wishes to feel this vulnerable, but he yearns to feel the courtesan’s skin moving against his and his stubble grate against his neck and his hot breath stuttering between them… he wants to close his eyes and pretend that it’s Jaskier.</p><p>Having heard his song and felt that twisting, confusing tangle of emotion in his chest, he <em>needs</em> this release, or he’ll be on the road to Oxenfurt by morn.</p><p>“Just get on with it,” he bites, but then, as the courtesan joins him on the bed and starts prying his cheeks apart with deft fingers, he amends – “Like you would a lover.”</p><p>He swallows his shame at the request and lowers his head to the pillow. The courtesan presses a kiss to the base of his spine and Geralt shudders, no longer sure if it’s at the touch, or the whisper of affection that recalls to mind everything that Jaskier is.</p><p>-</p><p>The fuck satisfies his libido but does nothing for his aching heart and the swirling thoughts in his head that always, somehow, return to Jaskier.</p><p>He trudges to the stables the next morn in the drizzling rain and saddles Roach with much the same enthusiasm. The only thing that keeps him on the right path is the thought that there might be a letter waiting for him somewhere in Velen.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>you can read the full lyrics to Valda's song over <a href="https://docs.google.com/document/d/1W642KXcXubnXL5WvOML2d6UiQBns7vtj_n2fMDV_qjw/edit?usp=sharing">here</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0029"><h2>29. Chapter 29</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><strong>cw:</strong> Jaskier is have a hard time so this chapter contains themes of poverty, drug use &amp; prostitution. We’ve also got a good deal of body dysphoria and self-hatred this chapter. This is still a fluffy fic, I promise! Trust me when I say these themes will remain light but they are <em>there</em> and might upset some readers. You can always @ me if you have questions or concerns.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jaskier is fairly certain he’s hallucinating. He stands aghast in the open doorway where he had just received the letter, staring down at the scratchy handwriting and the heavy ink over ‘yours’ that implies Geralt’s hesitation and is convinced that this must be a dream.</p><p>Then a discordant screech cuts through the haze and Jaskier realises that this must still be reality because Valda is still playing that same fucking song.</p><p>“You missed the note again,” Jaskier states, as he closes the door behind him.</p><p>Valda throws something at him and he ducks instinctively, eyes still fixed on the letter. Despite her apparent rage, she dutifully places the flute to her lips and tries the passage again.</p><p>“Better,” Jaskier comments when she actually reaches the top note this time. Valda has been rehearsing the same piece over and over again, and as unpleasant as it was at sunrise, it has become a new kind of torture by midday.</p><p>“What’s that?” Valda asks, finally noticing Jaskier’s distraction.</p><p>“Uh, nothing,” he says, childishly hiding the letter behind his back.</p><p>He should have known that secrecy would only heighten Valda’s interest. She raises an eyebrow and lowers her instrument for the first time since dawn as she takes in Jaskier’s blush and hidden papers. “Oh, really? So it wouldn’t be –” she dives forward and yanks the letter from his hands, dancing away before he can grab it. “A love letter!” she declares with glee. “‘<em>I think of you often</em>,’” she quotes, holding the letter out of reach. “My, my, for a Witcher, he can be awfully <em>romantic</em> –”</p><p>“He’s not being <em>romantic</em>,” Jaskier corrects with a heavy heart, finally wrestling the letter from her and straightening it the best he can on the table. “He’s just informing me of certain events. It’s… practical.”</p><p>Valda snorts her disbelief. “If this was a mere ‘practical’ sharing of news, my incompetent bardling, then he wouldn’t have enquired over your ‘wellbeing’ or given you a return address, or, dare I say, waited a pathetic <em>two weeks</em> before writing to you –”</p><p>Jaskier glares at her and folds the letter away in his pocket for safe keeping. He can’t afford to wear rose-tinted glasses like Valda does. It’s better to think of his entanglement with Geralt as a convenient arrangement and nothing more. He tries not to think about their lazy summer, tinged with casual domesticity, and how painfully in love he is with a man who could die in the jaws of a monster the very next day. His love is unrequited, and their future is doomed, he knows this – he tries, at least, to know this.</p><p>Jaskier clears his throat and tries to keep his unspooling thoughts locked away where they belong. “It’s nothing,” he says, but he’s well aware that neither of them believe his dismissal.</p><p>-</p><p>Geralt’s warm gratitude sits folded over his heart for the rest of the day, his words imbuing Jaskier with a steady confidence as he goes about his business.</p><p>By night, he finds himself on the porch of the Rosebud, smoking herbs and looking to the stars, and trying not to imagine the nights he spent on bedrolls beside Geralt naming constellations. He won’t stay here for long; he can’t afford the drinks and if he’s inside for longer than half an hour then someone always notices and invites him to the bar. He can stay out here and smoke though, even if the weather has turned bitter. He had a good winter coat back at Lettenhove, he muses with melancholy, but that may as well be as distant as the stars.</p><p>Jaskier still has a couple of weeks before the deadline set by his parents will come to pass but he already knows that he won’t be accepting their offer. He can’t imagine going back home and being forced to dress as the woman that they imagine him to be, let alone agreeing to marry some stranger in Skellige and bearing his children on some tiny island somewhere. No. Jaskier refuses to be locked inside a cage once more now he knows what it is to be free.</p><p>It’s not easy to get by without his parents’ stipend but he’s making do. He takes extra gigs where he can and has started charging those rich Camber boys for the privilege of his warm mouth, but his earnings are mere coppers compared to the coin he will need to get himself through this year, and he has no idea how to even start funding for his studies his final year at Oxenfurt…</p><p>His dire musings are thankfully put to rest by the appearance of Pablo Espero jogging up the stairs towards the Rosebud. The man has a constant frown on his face that Jaskier wagers is born from years of defensive behaviour because no sooner had they started talking the other week did Jaskier realise that this beast of a man was deceptively kind and gentle. He’s a quiet fellow, very purposeful in his movements; like his muscles only know how to knead bread and struggle to implement other commands. He’s delightfully tall and tanned, with unblemished skin and a shy smile, and Jaskier wasted no time in trying to bed him despite the significant years between them. Pablo seems uninterested though, and Jaskier would likely take some offence if the baker didn’t seem uninterested in <em>all</em> sexual invitations sent his way.</p><p>Jaskier offers his joint as Pablo approaches but he shakes his head, apparently uninterested in narcotics as well.</p><p>Pablo clears his throat to speak, always quiet and unsure like his voice is rusty with disuse. “Haven’t seen you around much this week.”</p><p>Jaskier shrugs, taking another relaxing drag of the joint. “Been busy,” <em>sucking off Camber boys for coin</em>, he doesn’t say. The occupants at Drag Night think him pathetic enough without his money worries. He’s made headway, for sure, since he first started coming here, but Mother Licious still looks down on him like a bug on her shoe. (Then again, seven foot in heels must make you look down on almost everyone.)</p><p>“You good?” Jaskier asks as Pablo comes to lean against the railings with him, close enough that Jaskier is warmed by his body heat.</p><p>“Good, actually. That new Professor set up shop. I no longer have to cross the river for tea. Good price too. Not that it was ever expensive, like, but the half day hike to get there sure as shit made it seem that way.”</p><p>Jaskier huffs, recalling Pablo’s previous rants about the ‘witch’ across the way. He’s glad Pablo has sourced a new supplier. “Professor Arbor?” Jaskier asks, trying not to sound too curious about the matter. Arbor was the Botany Professor that took Ociscum’s place; the academic that the Dean interviewed midway through their disciplinary hearing. Professor Arbor seems nice. Weird, but nice, which Jaskier has learned is about the best you can hope for in a lecturer. He calls him Julian, at least, which not many of the teaching staff opt to do.</p><p>“Yeah, that guy,” Pablo confirms. “His wife adjusted my blend too. Been getting these side effects for years – just, like, headaches and stuff – but Georgia took one look at my old blend and fixed it right up. If you’re – I mean, I dunno if you’re in the market, if you want to do that and all, but if you are, you could, uh,” Pablo clears his throat again, awkward as ever. “Arbor’s good if you do.”</p><p>Jaskier nods his head. He’d asked Pablo last week about taking hart root tea and the baker had been smart enough to know that Jaskier was asking for himself. Pablo answered his endless questions with patience – the things tea could change about his body, the things it couldn’t, how fast things things changed, how much it cost, where to acquire the medication, possible side effects, and so on – until Jaskier felt well-informed enough to consider it in his own time. He wants to look as masculine as Pablo, he knows that, but the risk that comes with changing his voice? He’s a performer. He can’t make money if his voice breaks. Even after it has settled again, there’s no guarantee that he will be able to sing the same way. It could ruin his career before it’s even started.</p><p>But… he looks at Pablo’s broad shoulders and thick muscles and full beard and <em>wants</em> that. He wants a deep voice that sounds more <em>him</em> even if that does come with risks. He feels the weight of Geralt’s praise resting over his heart and wonders if it might give him the strength to make the decision sometime soon.</p><p>“Thanks, yeah, that’s… good to know,” Jaskier mumbles, flicking the last of the ashes onto the ground before crushing the stub with the heel of his boot. “I just need to make sure.”</p><p>Pablo nods. “Yeah, absolutely. It’s not for everyone, you know? Here, you’re shivering, let me –”</p><p>Before Jaskier can protest, there’s a thick warm coat being placed around his shoulders. “Pablo –”</p><p>“Nah, man, keep it. Suits you. I’ve grown out of it anyway,” he says, laughing as he flexes his biceps.</p><p><em>Fuck</em>, those biceps… Jaskier makes a concerted effort to keep his mouth closed so he won’t drool over the poor man. He nods his thanks instead.</p><p>“Give me a shout if you need anything, yeah? I can go with you anytime, it’s no trouble. Can be kinda scary the first time but Arbor’s solid, like, he’ll help if you’ve got questions, no judgement or nothing.”</p><p>Jaskier nods again, feeling overwhelmed by such a selfless offer of support. “Thanks, Pablo. I appreciate it.”</p><p>“Anytime,” he says with a wave of his hand, before he disappears into the club.</p><p>Jaskier hears a pulse of music and laughter as the door opens before it closes behind him with a click. He yearns to join them but his purse is light and the hour is late. He heads home instead, walking through the streets with his mind full of ideas.</p><p>-</p><p>“No,” Jaskier declares with a pointed finger as soon as he comes home to the sound of that damned flute again, “You <em>cannot</em> still be playing that infernal piece of music. I <em>forbid</em> it. It’s <em>midnight</em>! I cannot bear to hear that fucking ascending chromatic scale that you call music one more fucking time –”</p><p>Valda ducks from his grasp before he can yank the cursed instrument out of her hands. “How do you think <em>I</em> feel?” she retorts. “I detest this fucking thing!” she says, waving the sheet music dramatically. “It’s dire. It’s dreadful. It’s driving me <em>insane</em> but if I don’t nail that fucking crescendo, if I don’t slur that chromatic passage with sufficient <em>legato, </em>if I fuff that top note even <em>once</em> during my performance, then I risk Professor Canta’s wrath, and god forbid,” she says with a dramatic swoon, “get a <em>second</em>.” She falls back on their sofa with a cry, as if achieving a single grade below perfection would kill her. (To be fair, it would kill him.) “Oh gods, what if I can’t do it?” she bemoans, looking up at Jaskier with teary eyes. “What if you <em>beat</em> me? With that cheery little jaunt on the recorder that you haven’t even <em>practised</em>.”</p><p>Jaskier shrugs. “Then the world would finally be a fair and just creation,” he jests. “You should have picked an easier second instrument if you hate the flute so much. It’s a bitch to control the air flow, and you have to get your lips all…” he gestures to Valda’s pursed lips, all puffed up from playing. Perhaps that’s why she took so well to the flute because she was already so adept at <em>pouting</em>.</p><p>Valda shakes her head. “Unlike you, I wanted the <em>challenge</em> of a <em>real</em> instrument.”</p><p>Jaskier rolls his eyes as he comes to crouch beside the sofa, as if he doesn’t remember Valda’s failed attempts at the other array of instruments that they had on display in their first year. Valda only chose flute because she could actually get a note out of it.</p><p>“Besides, I don’t hate the <em>flute</em>,” she amends. “I hate this <em>piece</em>.”</p><p>Jaskier huffs and leans back against the sofa; the tips of his shoulders pressed against the raised knees of Valda’s nightdress. “On that we can agree, at least. Who is it again? Bullard?”</p><p>“Urgh,” Valda says, dumping the papers on the floor beside them. It does, actually, look as horrific as Valda had described. “Yeah. Bullard. He deserves to be thrown into the Pontar for writing such modern discordant mullock.”</p><p>Jaskier tilts his head as he considers. “We could actually do that, you know. He’s still on staff. Wouldn’t be hard to track him down and give him a little nudge from the tower.”</p><p>Valda is silent for a moment, as if she’s actually considering murdering the composer for his decade-old work. Jaskier is subsequently forced to consider whether or not he would actually go along with such plans but thankfully before he can reach a conclusion, Valda sighs dramatically and throws her hand over her eyes. “Oh, it’s no use, the damn thing’s already written and I’ve already been assigned to play it, I may as well just perform it to perfection and <em>then</em> kill the man.”</p><p>“Sounds like a good compromise,” Jaskier says with wry amusement.</p><p>He feels Valda’s hand in his hair and as absurd as it feels to be petted, it also feels too good to discourage. “Why <em>haven’t</em> you been practising?” Valda asks softly.</p><p>Jaskier grimaces, and is thankful he is facing away so his roommate can’t see his instinctive reaction.</p><p>“The recorder’s one thing. I know you’ll take one look at that piece tomorrow and perform it just fine. But you haven’t been playing at all. You haven’t been <em>singing</em>.”</p><p>The vocalisation of the truth somehow makes the reality even more potent as the weight of absence settles in his heart. He feels Geralt’s letter in his pocket and recalls – <em>if anyone ever doubted your talent as a bard, they have no reason to doubt any longer</em> – gods, what a fucking lie. “I, uh,” he toys with his hands nervously while Valda’s own thread through his hair, doing her best to calm him. “Didn’t want to get too attached, I suppose.”</p><p>“You’re a bard,” she says, perplexed. “You’re <em>supposed</em> to get attached.”</p><p>Jaskier sighs and leans his head back further into her caresses. Surrounded by her touch, and Geralt’s letter, and Pablo’s coat, he feels supported enough to admit the truth of things. “I don’t think I can afford next year’s tuition, Valda. I think this might be the end of the road for me –”</p><p>She tries to interrupt but he talks over her, knowing exactly what her protests will be.</p><p>“No, I won’t go back home. I’m not that deluded. But I ought to get a steady job, move somewhere cheaper, start again someplace else…”</p><p>Valda shakes her head. “No, I won’t let you. You deserve to be here. You’re the best in our class, the best musician, the best vocalist, I –”</p><p>“Not for much longer,” Jaskier gripes, turning his head to see her. “I want to start hart root, Valda. It will ruin my voice –”</p><p>“It <em>might</em> –”</p><p>“It <em>will</em>,” he interrupts. “It will change. And I don’t know how it’ll settle after.”</p><p>Valda’s hand hesitates before returning to its movements, slow and purposeful, like the words she chooses. “You would risk losing your voice, your career, for…?”</p><p>“Yes,” Jaskier says, short-tempered as he wretches himself from her offered comfort and levers himself to standing. “Yes, I would. And I’m going to. I can’t stand to –” he feels tears building in his eyes and angrily swipes them away. Most of the time he’s fine. He can push these thoughts aside but as soon as he focuses on them, as soon as he gives them room to speak, they become <em>deafening</em>. “I can’t keep – I can’t.” He takes a deep breath to fortify himself and tries again. It needs to be addressed; it needs to be spoken. “Look, I know some people like me don’t need to take tea, that they can be happy as they <em>are</em>, but I… Valda, every time I look at my body, every time I <em>speak</em>, every time I <em>move</em>, I feel <em>sick</em>. I push it aside all the fucking time because I <em>have</em> to, because I have to keep going, because I thought I had no choice, but it’s <em>there</em>, and now I’ve acknowledged it, I can’t just push it aside. So if there’s a way to fix this wrongness, to ease this grating dissonance that I feel<em> every single day</em>, then it’s worth every sacrifice on the Continent. Even if that sacrifice is my voice.”</p><p>Valda nods her head and cautiously rises to approach him. He’s full on crying now; big tears sliding down his face, embarrassing gasps escaping him as the tears wrack his body. Valda folds him into an embrace and rocks him gently, soothing him with touch and words alike. “It’ll be alright,” she says, and Jaskier really, <em>really</em>, wants to believe that it will.</p><p>-</p><p>The next day, Jaskier wakes feeling peaceful and resolved. He still doesn’t know how he will afford to live. He still doesn’t know if Geralt will ever return his love. But he does know, unequivocally, what he wants to <em>do</em>.</p><p>His fears seem less daunting in the bright light of day. His voice will change, yes, but his body will remember how to sing. It will sound different. But different does not always, necessarily, mean <em>bad</em>.</p><p>In a moment, he will walk to the market and find Pablo. He will go to the herbalist and request a new blend of tea. And, then, at last, he will begin his physical transformation. But there is something else he wants to do first.</p><p>Giddy with excitement and sated with peace, Jaskier sits at his deck with a quill and a sheath of paper and writes <em>‘Dearest Witcher’</em> in the hope that he will be reunited with his love soon.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0030"><h2>30. Chapter 30</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Dearest Witcher – </em>
</p><p>Geralt has to put aside the letter as soon as he reads that glorious word – dearest, dearest, <em>dear</em>est – and try to reclaim his senses. He had arrived at the Inn at the Crossroads only a few minutes ago, drenched in bog water and rainwater alike, and had not even arranged for a room before requesting his mail. It’s been a month now since they parted ways, and although the coin is good and the work enjoyable, it has not been enough to distract from thoughts of his bard. And now, Geralt finally holds Jaskier’s words in his hands. </p><p>
  <em>Dearest Witcher,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I was ever so humbled to hear from you, as I assumed our separation would be burdened with silence given your unpredictable (and exciting!) line of work. I was therefore immensely pleased (and more than a little flattered) to receive word during your travels. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I have thought of you often – </em>
</p><p>Geralt feels his cheeks warm and folds the letter with embarrassment, stuffing it into his inner pocket as he requests the room key. As soon as he is behind closed doors, he cannot resist unfolding the letter and re-reading the opening lines. It takes a remarkable amount of self-restraint to wait until he’s reclining in a well-need bath to read the rest of it – </p><p>
  <em>I have thought of you often, as well, and am pleased to hear that you fare similarly. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>However, dear Witcher, I am immensely offended that you ascribed that dreadfully trite ditty regarding Professor Ociscum to my flawless body of work – I thought I had trained you better than that!! The truth of the matter is that I valiantly and heroically opted to take credit for Valda’s crude and rudimentary rhymes to save her from the embarrassment of educational expulsion. It has been, for lack of a better term, an <span class="u">eventful</span> few weeks. </em>
</p><p>Geralt reads with interest as Jaskier spends a good side of one page simply detailing the matter with the botany professor, including, for some reason, romantic speculation about Valda and this ‘Flosimae Hortus’. He finds a small smile on his face at the sheer verbosity with which his bard writes.</p><p>
  <em>The bright side, of course, is that I had a moment alone in the Dean’s office with which to amend my records. You’ll be pleased to hear that your most esteemed bardic travel companion is now one Mr Julian Pancratz, at least as far as the administration office is concerned. I cannot say that my educators have adapted to the change so readily – Professor Gascoigne, most notably, continues to be willfully ignorant of the changes – but as long as the teaching staff and administration staff continue to live their very separate lives, I imagine that my graduating diploma will state the correct name.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I have other exciting news along this front but seeing as I must retain some element of mystery to entice you back, you shall have to wait until we are reunited to hear the details. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Now, onto other matters. I am so glad to hear that your fortunes have changed, my friend, I can think of no one more deserving. If you wish to show your appreciation, then come back and <span class="u">show</span> <span class="u">me</span> <span class="u">your</span> <span class="u">appreciation</span>. I’m joking, I’m joking – </em>
</p><p>Geralt huffs a laugh, picturing Jaskier’s raised hands and cheeky smile all too well.</p><p>
  <em>– unless you are amenable, in which case I am definitely not joking. Come back here and fuck me silly, you tease.</em>
</p><p>This time Geralt <em>does</em> laugh and puts aside the letter long enough to emerge from the bath. He dons a comfortable shirt and braies before taking the letter to bed and continuing his enjoyable read. </p><p>
  <em>What ‘tease’ I hear you ask? ‘I did not proclaim any such carnal desires!’ No, you robbed me of something much more grave – the tale of the kikimore! How dare you say I would enjoy the tale and then not share your story! You cannot just mention this gruesome beast in passing. You cannot simply state it was in an ‘unsavory location’ and not expect me to beg for details. If I must beg, then I beg – what did this beast look like? where was this unfitting battleground? how did you best its trickery? – tell me and I may consider forgiving you for the grave crime of withholding tales from a bard. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Also tell me, once again, where I can write to you, or else, come and sate my longing (for the story) in person. If you need any more enticement to stop by Oxenfurt, then let me assure you that I am practicing what we discussed and believe I may be ready for you upon your return. I have taken up with this fellow, you see, who seems quite conflicted about his queer desires and is very willing to demonstrate them upon me. His manner may be cruel but his cock certainly isn’t – oh, my apologies, I seem to have ruined this perfectly sensible letter with the word ‘cock’. Perhaps I refer only to the cockerel’s call that I have been missing of late. </em>
</p><p>Geralt snorts a surprised laugh at Jaskier’s term of phrase for late night visits of a sexual nature. Jaskier’s rather raunchy letter does put at ease his own concerns about appearing too eager. </p><p>
  <em>Either way, I hope to hear from you soon, my friend. Nothing quite sates my appetite (for stories) like you. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yours,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Jaskier. </em>
</p><p>Geralt re-reads the words over and over until the word ‘yours’ buries itself in his chest. He is filled with fondness for the way Jaskier’s character shines through even in writing; all the little contractions of his character – flirtatious yet sincere, educated yet base, verbose yet direct – encapsulated in this single letter. </p><p>He does not yet know how he will respond but entertains possible lines in his mind, from earnest, to straight forward, to downright filthy. He closes his eyes, lets the letter fall to his chest, and his hand to his cock, as he revels in the warmth and comfort of the bed sorely missed. He imagines that what Jaskier says is true; that Geralt will be welcomed back with open arms and desperate kisses and his cock sliding at home in Jaskier in a whole new way. He imagines Jaskier’s carefree laughter in his ear, and his talented fingers in his hair, and his devilish mouth against his. </p><p><em>Fuck</em>.</p><p>He spills over his hand quicker than he’d expected at the simple fantasy. He intends to rise, to seek food, and clean the sticky substance from the palm of his hand, but his body is exhausted and his mind is still clinging to the memory of Jaskier’s warmth as he slips into a deep, satisfying sleep.</p><p>-</p><p>The next day, Geralt requests paper and ink and wonders how he can respond to Jaskier’s five-page soliloquy with anything approaching grace. </p><p>
  <em>Jaskier – </em>
</p><p>He curses, remembering how sweet Jaskier’s little ‘dearest’ had been. He deserves the same in kind. After mulling it over, he decides to borrow the words that Jaskier himself had used – </p><p>
  <em>Jaskier, my esteemed bardic travel companion,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Thank you for your letter. It entertained me for many hours. I am sorry to hear about the trouble with that fellow and the complications that have since arisen at the Academy. I also apologise for believing that ‘dreadful ditty’ to be written by your hand. In retrospect, the bard that I know would have chosen a stronger word than ‘prick’.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You do not need to entice me, I am already sufficiently enticed. I would be in Oxenfurt by the morrow if I did not have several more contracts to conclude. I will be with you as soon as I am able, and know that I am equally as eager to test these new waters with you.</em>
</p><p>He debates where or not to say the next line, biting at his lower lip as he twirls the delicate quill in his hands. Eventually, he relents, and dips the quill in the ink – </p><p>
  <em>I must admit I am concerned at your mention of this fellow’s ‘cruel’ manner towards you. You deserve only kindness and if this man has taken to hurting you then – </em>
</p><p>Geralt hesitates, halfway through a death threat and rephrases – </p><p>
  <em>I trust you to efficiently dissuade him. </em>
</p><p>That, at least, is true. Even when identifying as a noblewoman, Jaskier was pleasingly forthright in chasing his own pleasure, and if nothing else, the recent business with Ocimus – or <em>Ociscum</em>, as Jaskier had amusingly renamed him – has proven that Jaskier and Valda are not to be trifled with. He can rest assured that Jaskier would put an end to the arrangement if he desired. Perhaps Geralt ought not to have mentioned it. </p><p>
  <em>Forgive me, if I overstep. I only wish for you to know that I hold you in high regard.</em>
</p><p><em>High regard?</em> Geralt snorts. What is he? Some kind of noble? This was ridiculous. He gets back on track, describing the fight with the kikimore with as many sentences as Jaskier would have pried out of him in person. He would have enjoyed it, he thinks, the number of near misses would have made for a good song. </p><p>
  <em>You may write to me at the village of Oreton if you so desire. I ought to be there in another fortnight or so.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Congratulations on the recent changes, and for any more you may choose to make, Mr Julian Pancratz. </em>
</p><p>Geralt mulls over how to say ‘I’m proud of you’ without it sounding painfully trite, and after some minutes on contemplation settles on – </p><p>
  <em>I am pleased for you and all that you have accomplished. </em>
</p><p>It’s clumsy and cheesy but at least isn’t quite as revealing. He glances over his letter – a mere one side, instead of the five that Jaskier penned – and concludes, with no hesitation this time – </p><p>
  <em>Yours,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Geralt.</em>
</p><p> -</p><p>The next letter is waiting for him in Oreton. Geralt has learned his lesson and waits until he is alone to read it. It is shorter than the last – a few tales about Oxenfurt, and more speculation about the girls, plenty of flirtation (of course), and then he says – </p><p>
  <em>Quite frankly, I am outraged that you think I would enjoy hearing about you nearly losing your head, three fingers, and one foot, to that vile creature roaming in Novigrad sewers. Apparently I have not made myself clear in the past: I care about you greatly, and would be immensely grateful if you didn’t die in the foreseeable future. Would you please stop endangering yourself so frequently, or at least let me travel by your side so that I might drag your unconscious body out of the monster den afterwards? I feel like that is not too much to ask for. Honestly, Geralt, you’ll give me grey hairs with all this fretting. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Please, darling, come back to me in one piece. Preferably without any new scars on your lovely face and even lovelier bottom. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Take care of yourself. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yours, <span class="u">sincerely</span>, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Jaskier.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>P.S. You were clearly not ‘sufficiently enticed’ given that you have not yet returned. Now I have no choice but to entice you further, and inform you that I laid with Old Faithful last night. I believe you once stated that you were of a similar size? I would so dearly love to find out for certain.</em>
</p><p>There are a number of small crude sketches after the postscript that render Geralt entirely flustered at their insinuation, but it is the main body of the letter that has him most distraught.</p><p>
  <em>I care about you greatly,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>let me travel by your side,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>please, darling,</em>
</p><p><em>sincerely, </em>underlined</p><p>Geralt is overtaken with warmth, encompassing and comforting, as he re-reads the letter. He didn’t dare hope that Jaskier would develop feelings for him; that someone so brilliant could care about a beastly, scarred monster hunter like Geralt, but there it is, written as clear as day. </p><p>
  <em>I care about you greatly.</em>
</p><p>-</p><p>The constant rain drenches Geralt as he and Roach trot through another small village the next day, somewhere in the south of Velen. He is passing an inn, overflowing with light and warmth and music, and it is only when he has nearly passed it that he recognises the bittersweet song coming through the windows as one of Jaskier’s. </p><p>
  <em>I hope that you’ll come back with only a scar to your name</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I hope that you’ll come back and I’ll be yours again</em>
</p><p>Geralt closes his eyes and lets Jaskier’s words wash over him. As the song continues he realises, for the first time, that the song may not be about a soldier leaving for war at all.<em> Amber Eyes</em>, the song is called. <em>Swords</em>, it says, plural. The song is about him. About how much Jaskier misses him when he’s away.</p><p>“Fuck,” he swears, halting Roach in her tracks. Jaskier must have written that song nearly a year ago, after their first or second encounter. And already he had felt like this? It is too much to consider.</p><p>
  <em>I hope that you come back with well-deserved fame</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I hope that you come back and remember me the same</em>
</p><p>Geralt frowns in curiosity as he catches the rhyme. This particular bard doesn’t sing the last line with the same gravitas that Jaskier did back at the start of summer, and Geralt – with a heavy weight of guilt on his shoulders – realises why. <em>He must have been afraid I would return and no longer want him; he must have thought I only desired him as a woman. </em></p><p>Geralt shakes his head. <em>Of course I remembered you the same, you fool,</em> he thinks fervently, as he stands frozen in the street, recalling the moment when he first laid eyes on Jaskier in a doublet. Jaskier’s changed appearance had barely registered because Geralt was just so happy to be reunited with him. He should have told him that, he realises. Instead of having Jaskier pry the half-truths from him later that night, he should have said: <em>I want you. Regardless of gender, I want <span class="u">you</span>. </em></p><p>Clear, simple, and honest. </p><p>He wonders how happy Jaskier would have been at that simple declaration, and regrets that he did not make it so. Even the ghost of Jaskier’s smile that flickers through his mind is enough to reignite the deep-seated ache that he has done his best to ignore all autumn long.</p><p><em>Darling, don’t you know? </em>the bard sings, taunting him. </p><p><em>I know,</em> he thinks. <em>Fuck, I know. </em></p><p>He tugs on Roach’s reins and turns east. It was time to return to Oxenfurt. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0031"><h2>31. Chapter 31</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It takes Geralt over a month to traverse Velen, so by the time he returns to Oxenfurt the city is already in the throes of winter. He’ll be heading north for Kaer Morhen soon but he just couldn’t stand the thought of a season in that cold empty fortress without the recent memory of Jaskier to warm him. He only hopes that Jaskier, true to his letters, will be pleased to see him. </p><p>Despite his urgency to see Jaskier, Geralt is still mindful to stop by the market first to empty his bags. He hardly needs the extra coin anymore, but it’s habit more than anything to pick up any old rusty swords he finds along the way and sell them for a few pennies in the next town. He visits a handful of stores to sell his wares until he arrives at the armourers with a good handful of swords that ought to cover the repair of his own. Jackson makes his usual gruff remarks about the thick layers of grime encrusted on his possessions and mutters that it will take a day at least to give them a good polish. </p><p>Geralt used to resent the delay in repairs – another day wasted in a city instead of on a contract, another night spent in a tavern that he couldn’t afford – but now he is thankful for such a delay. He hopes that Jackson takes two days. Takes three, even. Because it will mean longer in his bard’s arms. </p><p>Geralt leaves the tools of his trade in the armourer’s capable hands and by early evening, he is leading Roach across the bridge and onto the southern isle of the city, dressed in no more than trousers and a loose shirt. </p><p>Roach settles into the university stables with less fuss than he’d expected and she takes to the fresh hay eagerly, almost as if she is growing fond of this place too. Geralt leaves her, content at the sight of her happiness, and makes his way to the administration office. The clerk is reluctant to give him the address of Jaskier’s new lodgings – even when Geralt retrieves letters from his satchel demonstrating their correspondence – until she catches sight of the moniker ‘White Wolf’ amongst the words and then she is all blushes and giggles. His new reputation does wonders for favours and for coin but does have the unfortunate side-effect of unwelcome flirtation. </p><p>All in all, Geralt loses nearly an hour to needless bureaucracy, and by the time he is standing outside Jaskier’s door the first stars are already appearing in the night sky. </p><p>Geralt knocks and then waits with bated breath as he hears commotion on the other side of the door. He can hear the crackling of fire, the shuffling of papers, laughter, and muted conversation. Soft footsteps begin to approach, the wooden floor creaking with the movement, and Geralt can only hope that the door will open to his absent companion and not his shrill roommate. </p><p>Geralt’s prayers are answered a moment later when a flushed and smiling Jaskier is presented before him, dressed down in hose and a tunic, the homely wear giving the appearance of softness and warmth, like a dream conjured on a cold mountaintop. </p><p>Jaskier’s expression changes in the blink of an eye; his light-hearted countenance shifting into one of shock. And then, miraculously, a smile appears that’s even brighter than the one he was greeted with. </p><p>“Geralt,” he breathes.</p><p>Geralt feels his walls collapsing at that singular sound; his gruff exterior melting away at the sound of his name in the bard’s mouth, melodic and familiar.  </p><p><em>Fuck</em>. He really is done for.</p><p>“Jaskier,” he returns just as softly, taking in the beauty before him. Jaskier looks <em>different</em>; different enough that he can’t even parse the multitude of changes right away. His scent has changed too, muskier and intoxicating, and Geralt feels his nostrils flare even from this distance, trying to identify the scent. But through all this he still manages to ask hesitantly, “Are you… free?”</p><p>Jaskier grins and reaches out to tug Geralt through the doorway, immediately locking their lips together. Geralt’s breath stutters at the shock of the kiss; his heart pounding and his hands grasping, overcome at the feeling of his longing is suddenly realised. Jaskier’s very touch feels like oxygen to his lungs. He is <em>desperate</em> for it. Jaskier’s hand threads through his hair and Geralt’s hands roam across his bard; too exhilarated with their reunion to catalogue the changes that he can <em>feel</em> with his hands. He missed kissing him, he missed holding him, he missed – </p><p>“Urgh.” </p><p>Geralt breaks the kiss and turns to see Valda sitting in the centre of the common room, picking disinterestedly at her nails, lounging at a table near-covered with papers and books. It’s rather concerning that he was so wrapped up in Jaskier that he hadn’t even noticed someone else was in the room with them. </p><p>“If you’re going to be fucking all night then I’m going to see Floss,” she says, already throwing books into her satchel. “We have Arithmetic first thing and I’d rather not fall asleep in the middle of class because I was forced to stay up listening to you two fuck. Have fun. Clean your toys afterwards. Don’t be late for class. Or, you know, <em>do</em>, and I’ll tell Professor Praeter exactly who’s dick you’re impaled on. I bet he’ll dock you five marks just for fucking a Witcher.”</p><p>“Good to see you too,” Geralt murmurs as Valda strides out of the room with a dramatic flick of blonde curls. </p><p>Jaskier huffs a laugh against his lips and it’s strange but even <em>that</em> seems different. </p><p>Geralt turns back to his bard and now the haze of desire has lifted, he finds that he can catalogue the changes with more clarity. He can see a couple of hairs on his chin, and examine the different build of his chest, and when Jaskier scratches the back of his head with shyness to explain Professor Praeter’s apparent othering, his tunic slips and reveals thicker hair under his armpits, a muscular bicep that flexes with the movement, and a voice that is pitched noticeably lower. Geralt finally – <em>belatedly</em> – recognises the scent. Jaskier’s hormones have changed composition. </p><p>“You started hart root,” Geralt concludes.  </p><p>Jaskier laughs and ducks his head in another oddly shy gesture. “Yeah, I changed my medication. Still on birth control, but, like, a different kind? One that doesn’t screw with the new masculine stuff. Honestly, botany is my worst subject and I don’t try to understand what that herbalist does, but he did alright, don’t you think?” </p><p>Geralt nods numbly, still cataloguing all the minute ways that Jaskier has changed in only two months.</p><p>“I mean, it’s early days. It’ll take a while for this hart root blend to really do its stuff, you know? For my body to settle into it. But it’s…”</p><p>“Good,” Geralt interrupts, trying to do this whole ‘clear, simple, and honest’ thing. “You look good.” He buries his nose into Jaskier’s shoulder and takes a deep inhale, adjusting to the new scent of him. “You smell good.” Then he trails his lips along Jaskier’s and murmurs, “You <em>sound</em> good. <em>Fuck</em>.”</p><p>And then he’s kissing Jaskier again and pushing him back against the closed door and after a few minutes of pleasant distraction, manages to remember the conversation they’d been having. “You decided,” he states, because he’s fairly certain that any decent alchemist would ensure confidence before altering a tea blend. “Are you happy?” he rephrases, trailing his lips across Jaskier’s bare shoulders.</p><p>“Yeah,” Jaskier sighs, tangling his hands in Geralt’s hair again. <em>Fuck</em>, how he loves that. “I think that I’m…” he shakes his head and rectifies, “No, I <em>know</em> that I’m a man.” </p><p>Geralt smiles; the first genuine smile since they’ve parted ways, and pulls Jaskier in for another kiss. His bard’s new scent is filling his nostrils and the addictive taste fills his mouth. He wants to be surrounded by it.</p><p>“Thank you,” Jaskier gasps as they pull away again. “For encouraging me. If it weren’t for you…”</p><p>Geralt shakes his head. “You did this by yourself.”</p><p>Jaskier pounds his fist good-naturedly against Geralt’s shoulder. “You sent the thoughts unravelling with that fucking lecture of yours, you went to the barbers with me – to drag night, to the tailors even, <em>you</em> asked me if I <em>liked it </em>when they mistook me as a boy.” He shakes his head with a laugh. “Geralt, I could have spent my life denying this, being <em>miserable</em>, if you hadn’t shown me that there was another way.”</p><p>Geralt rests his head against Jaskier’s and squeezes his hips where his hands have fallen. He hadn’t realised, until it was all repeated back to him, just how much of Jaskier’s journey he has witnessed first-hand, and how honoured he feels to have been a part of it. He feels uncomfortable accepting the praise but doesn’t want to belittle Jaskier’s experience by dismissing it either. Instead, he leans in and kisses Jaskier softly, just a gentle press of lips without the heat of their previous exchange.</p><p>The tender touch seems to calm Jaskier as well as he sags in his arms; the hands that had been caressing his hair, falling to his shoulders instead. </p><p>He could say something sentimental if he’s not careful so instead he pulls away and glances back at the paper-laden table, well aware that he must have interrupted his studies. “Are you certain now’s a good time? I wouldn’t want to –” </p><p>He is yanked back into a passionate kiss, cutting his protests short. “Geralt, I have been waiting two long months for you to come here and fuck me senseless, and no amount of overdue papers or pressing engagements would sway me otherwise, even if I had any such concerns.”</p><p>“You’re certain?” he murmurs, even as he steals another kiss from Jaskier’s lips.  </p><p>Jaskier nods, sparing no more time to talk, as he pulls Geralt closer for another deep and searching kiss.</p><p>Geralt groans and this time when he pushes Jaskier back against the door and feels the stirring of desire in his belly, he follows his instincts and presses his hips flush against Jaskier’s. A surprised moan falls from his lips when his hardness isn’t met by the welcoming ‘v’ of Jaskier’s legs but by something soft and sizable instead. “<em>Fuck</em>,” he swears emphathically, leaning back to confirm his suspicions. Now Jaskier’s tunic is rucked up from their passionate kisses, Geralt can make out the subtle bulge at the front of Jaskier’s dark hosiery, enticing and alluring.</p><p>Jaskier licks his lips and Geralt is drawn to the sight like a forktail to a goat. Jaskier looks fucking sinful panting against the door, flushed and debauched; his tunic slipping down his kiss-bitten shoulders to reveal the strap of his moonlight vest, his lips shamelessly swollen with desperate kisses, and the artificial appendage curving the front of his hose. Geralt suddenly has no idea how he walked away from such beauty and certainly has no idea how he will again.</p><p>“<em>Fuck</em>,” he swears again, because the first time definitely wasn’t enough. “You look…” he can’t think of a word to describe the wondrous sight and trusts his hand to speak instead as it slips down the front of Jaskier’s body. The bard’s breath hitches when his fingers stroke across the package. </p><p>“It’s just a sock,” Jaskier squeaks; his deep voice slipping for just a moment. There’s a lopsided smile on his face, as if he’s embarrassed, but his deep and laboured breaths would betray his arousal even if his scent didn’t. “I’ve become very good at sewing.”</p><p>“Is that so?” Geralt asks, fingering Jaskier’s crotch. He can feel the stitches if he focuses. He traces the outline of them until it forms a square and concludes that there is a makeshift pouch sewn into the reverse of the thin hose. “Clever.”</p><p>“Just what you taught me,” Jaskier gasps, his breath just as wrecked as Geralt cups the package in his hand and <em>squeezes</em>. </p><p>The mere idea that Jaskier somehow found something <em>useful</em> in a witcher’s shitty life and made it into something of his own, something <em>good</em>, leaves Geralt feeling light-headed but then he realises that Jaskier must have been thinking of him in order to recall his lessons, that he must have crafted his cock with the ghost of Geralt’s hands over his… and Geralt pulls him into a deep and possessive kiss, rutting desperately against him in an attempt to alleviate his distress. </p><p>“Fuck,” he swears, kissing him, and then kissing him again, obsessed with the knowledge that Jaskier’s cock was made with his stitches. </p><p>Jaskier groans, seemingly equally as taken with the idea, as he claws them even closer together. Then, he breaks off with a laugh and tries to reclaim his breath. “Of course, Valda insisted she knew better. The wretched woman commented on every damn stitch.”</p><p>Geralt huffs a laugh, amused but also pleased that Valdoria seems supportive of Jaskier’s decision to alter his appearance. </p><p>Jaskier shrugs. “She actually paid attention when her governess taught her embroidery, you see. Very handy with a needle that girl.”</p><p>“I imagine she is,” Geralt says, continuing his unconscious movements against Jaskier’s side as he mouths behind Jaskier’s ear. “But I think you’re better at handling larger equipment.”</p><p>Jaskier’s breath hitches as Geralt’s hand slips beneath the hose to stroke Jaskier’s nub, conveniently sitting snugly behind his package. “That is…” Jaskier gasps, “a terrible line.”</p><p>Geralt chuckles against his throat and withdraws his hand as a better position occurs to him. He effortlessly lifts Jaskier and the bard instinctively wraps his legs around him, pressing their groins together in a way that makes both of them gasp. Geralt tightens his grip on Jaskier’s behind and gives an experimental thrust; his clothed erection pushing Jaskier’s package back against his sensitive crotch. Jaskier moans, soft and needy, like it’s just enough pressure to make it feel good. </p><p>Geralt groans and gives into his desire for another kiss, rocking their hips together as he goes. For minutes that’s all it is, mindless rutting and desperate kisses, like they’re two horny kids that are only just learning their bodies. Geralt doesn’t have the mind to do anything else though. All he wants is this blissful friction and Jaskier’s mouth on his. No one’s touched him since that heartless visit to the brothel and he’s desperate for anything that Jaskier can give him. </p><p>“Can you come like this?” Geralt growls against his mouth, trying to thrust harder and closer to give Jaskier the best pleasure he can. He’s distressingly close but he wants Jaskier to be just as desperate. </p><p>Jaskier whines and throws his head back against the door. “Sweet Melitele, I don’t mind if I <em>don’t,</em> this feels so good. Don’t stop, darling.”</p><p>Geralt mewls at the errant petname, for the first time spoken outside a letter, and reaches his peak only a few moments later. </p><p>He soils his trousers but can’t care one whit for the discomfort and inevitable stain when Jaskier runs his hands through his hair and murmurs sweet nothings in his ear. </p><p>The smell of Jaskier’s arousal – different now, but still just as divine – calls him back to reality. He doesn’t want to break the spell; wants to keep pleasuring Jaskier like this if he can, so he snakes his hand between Jaskier’s legs and pushes the bunched fabric of his package up, just slightly, until he can feel his slick member on the other side of the hose. With this much more direct touch, Jaskier comes apart within minutes, bucking into his hand and gasping his pleasure into Geralt’s mouth. </p><p>*</p><p>“Well, fuck,” Jaskier says as eloquently as he can manage as they lean against each other, catching their breath. Geralt looks just as debauched as he probably does; his hair messy from Jaskier’s fingers, his lips swollen and parted, his baggy shirt askew and crumpled, and a wet stain blooming at the front of his trousers. Looking at him now, Jaskier has no idea how he ever let him go. “That was not what I was planning for our reunion. Please tell me you’re staying the night so I can make it up to you in the morning.”</p><p>Geralt huffs a laugh and brushes a kiss against Jaskier’s temple. Jaskier melts under the touch. Does Geralt realise that these little tender touches destroy him so? The sweetness does well to dispel the anxiety of his answer. Gods, he hopes Geralt is staying. He’s only just got him back and can’t say goodbye so soon.</p><p>“I’ll stay,” he says, and Jaskier breathes a sigh of relief. “If you’ll have me.”</p><p>Jaskier hits his shoulder with the back of his hand. “Of course I’ll have you, you numpty. My bed is yours, anytime you want it.” </p><p>Geralt blinks like he’s surprised, and Jaskier ducks his head and blushes at the accidental declaration. He has plenty of other lovers – plenty of other <em>distractions</em>, he mentally amends, as that’s what they are for the most part – but he knows he would give them up in a heartbeat if it meant having  his Witcher in his bed. </p><p>Geralt doesn’t react like he thought he would though; he smiles, all soft and lovely, and kisses him just as sweetly. </p><p>Jaskier sighs, overcome again with Geralt’s kindness, and allows himself the indulgence of pretending that his Witcher missed him as much as he had missed his Witcher. </p><p>“Come,” he says, unable to resist pushing his fingers into Geralt’s hair again, if only to see his eyes flutter close in bliss. “Let us bathe and then eat, and then, it seems, we have the entire night ahead of us.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>you should all know that I misspelled hose as 'hoes' at least three times while writing this</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0032"><h2>32. Chapter 32</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>You have two people to thank for the fact that you're about to read a colossal amount of porn. firstly, starbit, who said "you should add a blow job" and was 100% correct, and secondly, haley, who finished reading the completed 6000 word sex scene and said "who cares if it runs a little long" and was, once again, correct. I love my editing team, folks, they are far wiser than I. so instead of your usual 2k chapter, you've got around 3k here, and next week is likely to be the same. enjoy!</p><p>if you need a visual for the harness btw, starbit found <a href="https://www.aslanleather.com/jaguar">this</a> which is more or less what I'm envisioning</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They stumble through the door after dinner with their mouths locked and their hands peeling away clothing. In retrospect, it was foolish to think that they could wait until morning for another round. It’s been eight, nearly nine, weeks since they parted and every time Jaskier took a phallus (or Samuel’s cock for that matter) to his rear, he thought ‘next time, it’ll be Geralt’, and now, finally, <em>finally</em>, it was going to be true. Jaskier had spent all summer and autumn long anticipating Geralt’s cock entering him in this whole new manner, and when Jaskier had whispered “fuck me” to Geralt in the cafeteria, the Witcher had wasted no time at all in returning them to the dormitory. </p><p>Geralt seems very accepting – or, at least, very turned on – by Jaskier’s recent developments. Every time Jaskier speaks, Geralt <em>stares</em> with blown pupils. Every time Jaskier moves, Geralt’s hands twitch like he wants to feel the changes for himself. And then there’s the whole <em>sniffing</em> thing. During dessert, Geralt was just staring at him, scenting, and licking his lips, and seemingly cataloguing every minute shift of muscle and timid emergence of facial hair. </p><p>Don’t get him wrong – Jaskier is very excited by all this too. He was so overjoyed when the first hair sprouted on his chin that he and Valda made a little imprint of it in clay resulting in a very ugly paperweight. The first time Jaskier realised his voice had deepened he hadn’t shut up all day until Valda threw a shoe at him somewhere near midnight. Jaskier stares in the mirror every morning, prodding and poking and marvelling. </p><p>But Geralt?</p><p>He hasn’t seen any of this. He’s seeing it all for the first time <em>now </em>and apparently really, <em>really</em> likes what he sees. </p><p>“You seem happy,” Geralt had murmured over dinner. “You seem…” he’d tilted his head to the side, as if examining the slight differences in Jaskier’s face; harder, more defined, “more you.” He’d shrugged and shook his head. “You were muted, somehow. Now you’re louder. Happier. Assured. More... <em>you</em>.” </p><p>How is a man who is so ineloquent and blunt, and sometimes so damn taciturn, able to articulate exactly how Jaskier is feeling? It’s not that his shoulders were thickening; it was that he was holding them <em>high</em>. It was not the deeper voice itself but the fact that he now recognised it as his own. It was not the external transformation that has changed him but the <em>internal</em> one.</p><p>‘<em>More <span class="u">you</span></em>,’ indeed. </p><p>It was that perceptive statement that reignited Jaskier’s desire to be fucked into next week. He had grabbed Geralt’s hand and as soon as they were behind closed doors, started shedding the clothes that ought to have been forgotten hours ago. </p><p>Jaskier’s clearly not moving fast enough because he’s barely disposed of his tunic and Geralt’s shirt when Geralt lifts him off his feet and carries him to his bedroom. </p><p>Jaskier yelps but has mind to direct him even though – “I can tell it’s your room, bard, because it’s so fucking disorganised.” Jaskier chuckles and retorts something about organised chaos before Geralt is laying him out on the bed and trailing his hands tantalisingly along the edges of Jaskier’s moonlight vest.</p><p>“Right, shit, should take that off,” Jaskier mumbles, twisting upright to dispose of it. The vest has become a second skin to him and it’s sometimes a chore to remember to take it off before bed. He ought not to fuck in it either but he has a few times (and, <em>shit</em>, did today as well) because he fears his partners will touch his breasts otherwise but he knows Geralt knows better and sheds it without thought. </p><p>The garment is barely out of his hands before Geralt is lowering his head and determinedly licking across the sensitive red line that the vest leaves its wake. </p><p>Jaskier squirms at the sensation, pleasant but ticklish, and futilely pushes at the bulk of Geralt’s chest. “Take off your fucking shoes, you heathen. I want you naked and inside me before Valda comes home.”</p><p>“<em>If</em> Valda comes home,” Geralt teases with a smile, as if he knows about Valda’s recent infatuation with the florist. Then it dawns on Jaskier that Geralt <em>does</em> know because he <em>wrote</em> to him; a fact that still seems absurd even after the fact. </p><p>Geralt’s good though and does as he’s told, methodically stripping out the last of his clothes as Jaskier hops around, chaotically disposing of his own garments and locating the oil.</p><p>When Jaskier opens the bedside drawer, however, his eyes fall to his little wooden diletto. He inhales sharply and darts his eyes back to the bed where Geralt lies naked, watching him eagerly. Jaskier’s been wearing the phallus with sexual partners lately. Not just when enchanted with the ointment, but for its own sake too. It makes him feel more comfortable somehow. He’s fairly certain Geralt won’t mind the addition to their lovemaking but they certainly haven’t discussed it.</p><p>Jaskier takes a deep breath for courage and extracts the cock along with the oil. Geralt is frowning by the time he returns to the bed; Jaskier always forgets that Witchers can smell certain emotions until he sees concern written all over his lover’s face. Jaskier probably smells as anxious as he feels. “Is it okay if I, uh, wear this? You don’t have to touch it or anything. It just…” Jaskier shrugs. “It makes me feel more comfortable.” </p><p>Geralt responds with a small smile. “Whatever you need. I assume, by your previous statement, that you want what we discussed before?”</p><p>“You mean what I pined for all autumn long?” Jaskier asks, tossing Geralt the oil so he can affix the harness, carefully assuring that his back entrance is still accessible. </p><p>Geralt huffs and catches it effortlessly. “That’s a ‘yes’ then?”</p><p>“It’s a ‘yes’,” Jaskier confirms and crawls over Geralt to steal another kiss. “I want you to fuck me.”</p><p>Geralt growls posessively and then, because he is a mind reader and a saint, reaches down to stroke Jaskier’s wooden cock. Jaskier can’t feel the touch but he gives a shiver nonetheless as if it has become a bodily instinct now that he has used the ointment so often. “That reminds me,” Jaskier says, bucking into the touch with another phantom instinct, “there’s something I want to do later.”</p><p>“Hmm?” Geralt asks, his head tilted to the side as he watches Jaskier’s behaviour with interest.</p><p>Jaskier shakes his head to shelve the idea because as much as he wants to be able to <em>feel</em> it when Geralt touches his cock, he also knows that as soon as the ointment is applied he’ll want a thousand other things and they have a <em>plan</em> here. </p><p>Geralt, however, won’t be dissuaded. “We can do it now, if you like.”</p><p>Jaskier laughs at the mere idea of his stamina being that stellar. “No,” he says, covering Geralt’s calloused hand on his cock, “if we do it now, I will peak embarrassingly soon. Later, my dear.” </p><p>Geralt’s expression softens but Jaskier doesn’t know if it’s the topic or the endearment that is responsible for the change. Jaskier really ought to mind his mouth around Geralt but he just keeps slipping up, first with the letters, and now in person it seems. At least it is only endearments falling from his lips unwittingly, though he fears ‘love’ might not be far behind. </p><p>Geralt’s hand rises to cup his face and Jaskier leans into it instinctively. “Tomorrow,” he promises.</p><p>And not only is that a beautiful fucking word but the idea that Geralt didn’t even <em>question</em> what Jaskier has in mind fills him with desire. </p><p>“Tomorrow,” Jaskier agrees, his head already filled with fantasies of using the ointment. Fantasies that become so rich he actually breaks off with a groan and an impatient flailing of arms. “No, fuck it, I want it now.”</p><p>Geralt laughs and the sound is so fucking hallowed that Jaskier momentarily forgets what he’s doing as he trips over the bedcovers in his haste to retrieve his supplies. </p><p>“How did I know,” Geralt says in a monotone, but he doesn’t seem at all displeased as he stretches out on Jaskier’s bed with a teasing smile on his lips.</p><p>“Oh shush, you,” Jaskier retorts, habitually applying the ointment and lotion. </p><p>“You’re so impatient,” Geralt teases, and although his manner is lazy, his eyes are sharp as they travel across his body. The Witcher’s hand, strangely, falls to his medallion. </p><p>“<em>Eager</em>, I believe is the word you’re looking for,” Jaskier corrects. “Beautiful, divine,” he lists as the diletto absorbs the lotion and his practical motions begin to turn into ones of pleasure, “magnificent. I’d accept all of the above descriptors and more.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt says, and it warms Jaskier to know that he recognises that ‘hmm’ and the hot gaze that travels over his body as desire. “Then I give you all of that and more,” Geralt says smoothly, rolling back onto his back as Jaskier comes to straddle his waist again.</p><p>“Do it again,” Jaskier requests, and Geralt <em>does</em>, cupping the wooden member in his calloused hand and moving slowly upwards.</p><p>Jaskier gives a full body shudder as he feels it in earnest this time. “Oh, fuck,” he whispers in a strangled voice. He has imagined this a hundred times – with his own hand, or that of a partner – but he never got it quite right. The placement of sword callouses, the teasing pressure instead of a firm grip, the slow and tortuous stroke… it was impossible to predict.</p><p>Geralt frowns, looking between Jaskier’s face (no doubt flushed with pleasure) and the hand on his cock. “It smells like magic,” he states, nose flaring with distaste. </p><p>“Oh, relax,” Jaskier chides, knocking the Witcher’s hand away from his cock. “It’s perfectly safe.”</p><p>“Says who?”</p><p>“Says… I don’t know? The mage who made it?”</p><p>“Which mage?” he asks, frown deepening. </p><p>Jaskier leans back and crosses his arms defensively. “Valda bought it for me from a travelling mage in Cidrais, if you must know. I didn’t catch their name.”</p><p>Geralt raises an eyebrow, seemingly forgoing a comment about their unusual relationship to hum in distaste. It’s then that Jaskier notices another hum, coming not from Geralt but from the Witcher’s medallion that lies between them. It’s a high-pitched vibration, barely there, like a distant ringing in his ears. </p><p>Jaskier shifts self-consciously above him; sheepish that his ointment – the source of so much joy in his life – has caused nothing but disdain from Geralt. He keeps his arms crossed, covering the chest that he still feels so self-conscious about, and pretends he can’t hear that unsettling hum between them. “Are you done?” he snaps.</p><p>Geralt, at least, has the decency to look ashamed. “Sorry,” he says, his prickly defensiveness falling by the wayside as he runs his hands up along Jaskier’s sides in a manner that always succeeds in relaxing him. “I wasn’t expecting it. Unknown magic unsettles me.”</p><p>Now it is Jaskier’s turn to feel apologetic. He hadn’t paused to consider how it would feel to a Witcher; how even the barest hint of foreign magic might put him on edge. He drops his arms from his chest to cover Geralt’s hands with his own as they fall in his lap. “Sorry,” he says, with a sigh. “I should have asked before I used it. And, I suppose, I ought to have run some tests before slathering it all over my privates. Next time I’m given a magical sex toy from Valda I’ll… I don’t know, ask you to sniff it first?”</p><p>Geralt huffs a laugh and reaches up to tuck an errant strand of hair behind Jaskier’s ear. “That would be wise. But just some warning before you use it, next time, if you don’t mind.”</p><p>Jaskier nods. That’s a compromise he can reach. “Do you want me to take it off?” Jaskier says, reaching for the straps. “I don’t know if the magic will stop until orgasm but I…” </p><p>“No,” Geralt assures, covering Jaskier’s hands over the straps to dissuade the action. “It was just unexpected, is all.”</p><p>Jaskier nods, a little ashamed that he was so caught up in the moment that he did not pay Geralt the same courtesy that he always pays him. Jaskier cups Geralt’s cheek in his hand, stroking it apologetically before leaning down and taking his lips softly between his own. </p><p>That familiar bubbling affection rises in his chest and the words he longs to say weigh heavy on his tongue as Geralt kisses him back just as sweetly.</p><p>Then, while Jaskier is still feeling pleasantly light-headed from the kiss, Geralt’s hand slips down his chest to cup the wooden member still digging into his side.</p><p>“Oh, shit,” Jaskier swears, head falling against Geralt’s shoulder as unexpected pleasure rolls through him.</p><p>Geralt’s eyes, once wary, now seem <em>curious</em>. Jaskier has seen that look in the bedroom before and has become very, very, fond of it. Sex with Geralt is <em>always</em> phenomenal because Geralt is so <em>Geralt</em>. He’s so attentive and passionate and understanding of Jaskier’s needs, never once taking more than is offered, but he has this innate intuition and a spark of creativity in the bedroom that rivals even Jaskier’s own depraved mind. Whatever Geralt is thinking, Jaskier knows that he’s going to enjoy it very, very much. </p><p>“How does it work?” Geralt murmurs, and Jaskier retains enough of his mind to repeat some of the explanations Valda had used while Geralt keeps caressing his cock in a very distracting manner.</p><p>“Hmm,” he says in response, which Jaskier translates as <em>fascinating</em>. </p><p>“I meant it though,” Jaskier gasps, bucking into the sensation with a groan, “when I said I won’t last long like this.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt says contemplatively with another pass of his hand; tighter this time, more purposeful.</p><p>Jaskier sits back and feels Geralt’s own hardness growing once more behind him, apparently having flagged during their parley. </p><p>“Is there some rule about you peaking more than once?” Geralt asks.</p><p>Jaskier shakes his head because it’s not a problem as such but, “Have to reapply it each time. Bit of a hassle.”</p><p>“Not to me.” Geralt’s lips twitch to the side and his eyes sparkle in that mischievous way and Jaskier knows that whatever previous plans they had have just been abandoned in favour of whatever it is Geralt wants to do. </p><p>Before Jaskier can even contemplate the implied meaning – multiple orgasms, fantastic – his hips are being urged forward and his cock falling into Geralt’s mouth. </p><p>*</p><p>Fuck their previous plans, Geralt thinks as he sucks on Jaskier’s wooden cock. Twenty minutes ago he had been sold on the idea of sliding into Jaskier’s tight wet heat in the way Jaskier has been promising for <em>months</em> but then he saw Jaskier’s eyes flicker close in pleasure as he stroked his enchanted phallus and Geralt had felt just as enchanted. The foreign magic had thrown him a little at first but as soon as he recognised for what it was, the hum of the medallion, the metallic scent of magic, and the warning tingle in his blood turned into something pleasurable instead.</p><p>Jaskier is distraught above him; gasping for breath, flushed to his chest, hands gripping the base of Geralt’s skull like he genuinely needs to hold on. Before tonight, Geralt never saw the appeal of a phallus in his mouth but with a little touch of magic, the act has turned <em>magnificent</em>. The tingle of magic kisses his tongue like sugar, the weight and feel of the polished wood is just as pleasant as any cock (the lotion thankfully flavourless), and the sounds Jaskier making are truly divine. They’ve fucked in so many imaginative ways over this last year but even so Geralt doesn’t think he’s ever heard Jaskier sound so <em>wrecked </em>before. Even without magic, Geralt would want to give this to him, just for the look of wonder on Jaskier’s flushed face. </p><p>Geralt places his hands on Jaskier’s hips and digs his thumbs under the buckles of leather on either side of the harness so that he can use his strength to maneuver Jaskier to his liking. He can’t take him deep while lying prostrate like this but Jaskier doesn’t seem to mind and after some minutes, Geralt works out that he prefers the light and fast kitten licks to his head more than the long passes of his mouth anyway. Geralt might prefer it too. The cock is an average size but the carpenter took time to craft a shapely head that feels good perched around Geralt’s lips. The texture of the very tip feels divine against his tongue, so much so that he could tease the slit for <em>days</em> if Jaskier let him – and judging by Jaskier’s little breathy moans, climbing ever higher, he’s fairly certain Jaskier wouldn’t deny him.</p><p>Jaskier was right to predict his lack of longevity though, because Geralt feels like he’s barely begun when his medallion vibrates at a new pitch and the scent of Jaskier’s pleasure spills onto the air. </p><p>Colourful curses fall from the bard’s lips as Geralt strokes him through his peak. He collapses onto Geralt shortly afterwards to recover. His ever-hard cock digs into Geralt’s hip but it’s not an unpleasant sensation as the humming of his medallion fades away and Geralt’s arm wraps around his bard’s waist. </p><p>Jaskier must have felt the vibrations too because he flicks the pendant and snorts a laugh. “I knew our fucking was spectacular but –”</p><p>Geralt barks a laugh, startled and unguarded. “The magical signature has changed,” he tries to explain.</p><p>“I’ll say,” Jaskier says with a wink.</p><p>Geralt feels his lips tick up into a smile, always so easy around his bard. “Not what I meant, bard. It seems the magic surges at climax to erase the spell.”</p><p>Jaskier lazilly waves his hand next to him, the movement heavy with exhaustion. “Allow me my romanticism, please.”</p><p>Geralt brushes his lips over his flailed hair and strokes his hand down his bard’s side, content to give Jaskier anything he wishes in this moment. “Very well.”</p><p>Jaskier falls into a light doze against his chest and Geralt dare not wake him. He spends the time playing with Jaskier’s soft hair and willing his heart rate (and his erection) to calm. It’s unlike Jaskier not to reciprocate immediately, or to leave Geralt hanging at all, so he must be truly exhausted to fall asleep now. </p><p>It’s a little disconcerting to see his bard so sapped of energy when he’s normally singing and scribbling late into the night but perhaps he had a tiring performance or a stressful week before Geralt’s arrival. He has no way of knowing, and the truth of that stings a little. </p><p>Geralt comforts his concerns by inhaling the scent of his bard – ink, sycamore, parchment, soap, sex, all tinged with his new masculine musk – and listens to the birds and students sing their evening song through the thin pane of glass.</p><p>It is <em>peaceful</em>, he realises with muted wonder. Peace isn’t a notion with which he has much practise but he’s fairly certain that the lightness he feels in his chest lying here with his bard is the definition he would choose if he were ever asked. </p><p>Geralt finds himself drifting into a light meditation, warm and content, and more than a little excited at the prospect of what the morning might bring. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>naptime and then onto part 2!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0033"><h2>33. Chapter 33</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>part 2!</p><p>we've got a little bit of dysphoria here re: having anal sex without a prostate, but it's easy to skip over if you want to, just miss the paragraph that begins "Jaskier knows he's missing..."</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Despite Jaskier’s apparent exhaustion, he doesn’t sleep for long. He wakes only minutes later, coming to consciousness with a wince and a groan. “You let me fall asleep,” he laments with a playful slap against Geralt’s arm. “You should have woken me.”</p><p>Geralt looks down at the sprawled mass of human across his chest and shrugs the best he can from under the weight. “Looked like you needed the sleep.”</p><p>Jaskier chuckles, a blush once more finding its way onto his cheeks. “What can I say? That was one mindblowing orgasm.” He grins and mimes an explosion with outstretched fingers and a puff of air from his lungs.</p><p>Geralt huffs a laugh, amused at Jaskier’s constant penchant for overt gesticulation, and tenderly tucks his hand under the chin that had been resting against his chest. He fingers the few shy hairs that he finds there and wonders if the next time they fall into bed together, there will be an entire beard that he can run his hands through. </p><p>“Urgh,” Jaskier says after a moment, slapping Geralt’s hand away as if he’s embarrassed. “Don’t. I’m spotty and gross and have a pathetic five hairs to show for it.”</p><p>“Six,” Geralt corrects, running the pad of his thumb over what looks like the newest member.</p><p>Jaskier’s eyes widen and immediately come to cover Geralt’s own to seek it out. “Well, I’ll be damned. Six.” </p><p>“Are you going to keep growing it?”</p><p>Jaskier shrugs. “Maybe. I don’t know. I just wanted to try it I suppose. See how much hair I can grow.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt muses, finally dragging his hand away. “You’d look handsome regardless.”</p><p>Jaskier leans up on his elbow, grinning eagerly as if he genuinely wasn’t expecting a compliment. Geralt ought to endeavour to do better in that department if he wants their entanglement to continue. He read somewhere that paying compliments can help make someone feel valued in a relationship. He wants Jaskier to feel valued.</p><p>“Naturally,” Jaskier says with a cocky air, though Geralt notices the softness around his eyes that betrays his faux-arrogance. “I’d look good even bald and ballsless, like poor old Gunther down by the pier.” He tilts his head in contemplation. “I suppose I <em>am</em> ballsless, but I never had them in the first place so it seems less of a loss somehow.” </p><p>Geralt chortles a laugh at Jaskier’s aberrant humour and leans across to kiss him. Because it’s Jaskier, however, it’s not long before the kisses turn fervid. </p><p>“Another side-effect of the tea,” Jaskier gasps between kisses, “I’m horny all the fucking time.”</p><p>Geralt laughs even as Jaskier captures his mouth for another deep kiss. “No change then,” Geralt retorts as soon as he’s able.</p><p>Jaskier gasps, mock-offended, before cupping Geralt’s hardened length in his hand and teasing, “You’re the one to speak. Have you been harbouring this monster the whole time?”</p><p>Geralt tilts his head to look down at the situation with amusement. Admittedly, his erection had hardly wilted while Jaskier dozed, the new scent of his bard too intoxicating to dismiss. “Your fault.”</p><p>“How is it <em>my</em> –”</p><p>But Geralt draws him in for another kiss before he can finish protesting, the shape of his words turning into moans in his mouth.</p><p>Jaskier eventually breaks away with an impatient chant of “fuck me, fuck me, fuck me” and clamours across the bedding likely in a bid to find the oil that had been so hastily abandoned. </p><p>Geralt finds the vial somewhere in his vicinity and waves it at Jaskier tauntingly. Before Jaskier can make a lunge for it though, Geralt effortlessly moves it out of his reach.</p><p>“Another oil comes first, I believe,” Geralt says with a meaningful glance at Jaskier’s hard cock. “For what I have in mind, at least.”</p><p>“You’d…? I can…?” Jaskier whimpers at whatever scenario he’s envisioning and obediently scrambles off the bed to find his supplies, ever enthusiastic. </p><p>Geralt doesn’t want to miss anything this time so he rises and stands behind his bard as he opens the bedside drawer, wrapping his arms loosely around Jaskier’s waist and burying his face into his shoulder. He rarely has cause to embrace Jaskier like this and he relishes in the snug fit of his cock between Jaskier’s cheeks; a perfect alignment owing to their similar heights. Like two pieces of a puzzle, a poet might say. </p><p>Jaskier seems to appreciate the closeness too, humming in appreciation as he reaches one arm up and behind him to curl around Geralt’s neck, and rocking his arse back into Geralt’s hardness in an imitation of the act that was about to unfold. </p><p>“Show me this time,” Geralt whispers into his ear. “I want to touch you.”</p><p>These simple words seem to undo the bard; his entire body shaking with delight as a wave of arousal comes to surround them. <em>Clear, simple, and honest</em>, he remembers. This new philosophy seems to be serving him well. </p><p>Jaskier passes him the two bottles – a small oil, and a large lotion – and then loosens the sides of his harness so that the straps of leather are supported by his hips alone and the phallus is free to tilt forward away from the flesh.</p><p>Geralt inhales greedily at the scent of Jaskier’s fluids staining the interior of the leather and wastes no time in reaching around Jaskier’s waist and running his fingers through the bard’s wet slit.</p><p>Jaskier responds delightfully, bucking into his hand, and even encouraging the tips of Geralt’s fingers to press against his wet entrance. <em>Fuck</em>. Once again, Geralt fears getting distracted and brings his hand forward again to rub at Jaskier’s little member. </p><p>Jaskier moans at the touch and blindly searches behind him for the bottles in Geralt’s hand. “The small vial,” he gasps. “Pour a little on your index finger. Spread it over…”</p><p>By the time Jaskier has gasped out these words, Geralt’s finger is already circling Jaskier’s nub with the ointment. </p><p>“Yes,” Jaskier sighs. “There. Yes. Your finger might get a little –”</p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt interrupts, smoothing over the pad of his index finger with his thumb. Tingly. His medallion hums in concert as whatever magic is cast on the ointment begins to take effect. Presumably the ointment is enchanted to work on any flesh and the lotion on any object. Clever. And bizarre, if he is to feel the movement of the phallus on the tip of his forefinger throughout their lovemaking. </p><p>“Now the lotion on the…”</p><p>Once again, Geralt doesn’t need encouragement as he pours a measure on his hands, approximately as much as he saw Jaskier use not long ago. </p><p>“Yes, yes, good,” he sighs as Geralt reaches around to coat the phallus liberally with lotion.</p><p>The surge of magic suddenly increases – a pulse of chaos that Geralt had felt all the way from the bed last time – as the lotion is absorbed into the phallus and Jaskier’s sighs become far more carnal in nature. In conjunction, Geralt feels an odd pressure on the tip of his finger where he had applied the ointment but its effects are minimal and easy to ignore on such an insensitive area of his body.</p><p>The harness is beginning to fall from Jaskier’s hips but the looser positioning of the cock is beneficial to Geralt’s plans so he loosens the straps further and guides Jaskier back to the bed.</p><p>Jaskier is kissing him, while frowning, and it’s a very curious combination as they both use their hands to support the harness. “Don’t I need to tighten it again?” Jaskier asks when he’s finally deposited on the bed, hands still grasping at the harness buckles, even as his cock falls right against his stomach where Geralt wants it. </p><p>Geralt shakes his head as he climbs over his prostrate bard. “Not for what I have in mind,” he says, brushing his lips over Jaskier’s, before he hooks Jaskier’s thigh over his shoulder and shifts forward, pressing their stomachs together with their cocks trapped tightly between.</p><p>Jaskier gasps his pleasure and digs his fingers into Geralt’s hair. “Oh,” he gasps. “Oh Geralt, you always have the <em>best</em> ideas.”</p><p>“Mmmhmm,” Geralt agrees, rocking them together just to feel Jaskier’s hard length against his stomach and the beautiful sounds it produces from his bard.</p><p>He must lose himself in the movement because it’s Jaskier that draws him out of it with a playful slap on his shoulder. “We’re getting distracted again,” he gasps. “Gods, I just want you to fuck me but you’re so fucking –” he breaks off in a moan as Geralt’s mouth latches onto his throat “–  so fucking good that I –” another strangled sigh as Geralt’s hand slips between his folds “– I would let you do anything to me. <em>Fuck</em>,” he swears again, bearing down on Geralt’s fingers at the same time his cock slides against Geralt’s stomach. “<em>Geralt</em>.”</p><p>Geralt can take a hint and finally relents. He could spend many more hours pleasuring his bard but he knows that Jaskier is tired and he delights in giving him exactly what he wants. </p><p> *</p><p>“Oh thank fuck,” Jaskier gasps when he sees Geralt reach for the lubricant. He would have dearly loved for Geralt to pull another orgasm from him if he’d had more than three hours sleep last night but as it is he just wants Geralt <em>inside</em> him already. </p><p>Geralt seems just as impatient as he coats his fingers liberally in the slick substance and rolls them to lie side-by-side. Jaskier had laid with Samuel only a handful of days ago, and took Old Faithful only that morning, so it ought not take much preparation for him to take Geralt’s magnificent cock. Then again, Geralt is a worry wart at the best of times, and particularly conscientious in bed, so this will likely take a small century regardless. </p><p>Geralt continues rocking their members together as his fingers circle Jaskier’s rim, as careful and diligent as always. Jaskier loses minutes or hours in the dual sensation of Geralt methodically opening him and the bliss of their cocks sliding together, and his impatience dissipates in the steady, building pleasure. They had spent many lazy summer days in Toussaint exactly like this, with Geralt slowly fingering him while his mouth was occupied elsewhere. Even now, Geralt’s mouth is latched onto his throat, sucking and kissing and probing, like he yearns to be between his folds once more. Jaskier would almost be tempted to let him if it weren’t for the delightful friction of their cocks. <em>Later</em>, he assures himself. <em>They’ll have time later</em>.</p><p>“More?” Geralt asks eventually, when Jaskier has lost count of how many fingers are inside him. </p><p>Jaskier takes a moment to assess the stretch and realises that it’s not quite at the measure of Old Faithful just yet. Close, though. He nods enthusiastically and is rewarded when Geralt withdraws his hand entirely to slick his member in oil.</p><p>Jaskier groans in anticipation and rests his head against Geralt’s shoulder, finding comfort in the familiar scent of him. “I’ve been thinking about this all autumn long. You’ve no idea.”</p><p>“I’ve some,” Geralt replies with a crooked smile. “Your letters were quite descriptive.” </p><p>Jaskier intends to laugh but it turns into a strangled sigh when Geralt starts pressing into him.</p><p>Jaskier claws at his shoulders, overwhelmed with the fact that it’s finally happening. At first, all he can feel is pressure, blunt and firm and almost painful, and then, it gives way to something else entirely. He moans as Geralt slides deeper, feeling delightfully full and desired, as Geralt pants with uneven breaths against his shoulder. The act would no doubt be more efficient if they weren’t still lying side-by-side, but Jaskier is reluctant to break from their intimate position and Geralt seems inclined to agree as he brushes a soft kiss against Jaskier’s lips. </p><p>“You feel good,” Geralt grunts, his usual deep voice rendered even more rough and broken. </p><p>Jaskier nods his agreement, incapable of voicing anything but a satisfied sigh as Geralt begins to rock them together; gripping the globes of his arse to inch them even closer.</p><p>Jaskier knows he’s missing a piece of anatomy to make this act even more electric – that the movement in his rear gives him the pleasant sensation of <em>full</em> without the specific buzz of pleasure that he would receive with a prostate – but the thrilling sensation of his cock sliding against Geralt’s stomach manages to assuage that futile yearning for more. It feels good, and full, and <em>right</em>, so what does it matter if there’s a little piece missing? He’s still a man. A man on the receiving end of what has to be one of the most magnificent cocks in history. </p><p>“Good?” Geralt asks, like he can’t fucking <em>smell</em> Jaskier’s overwhelming arousal and hear the rapid pounding of his heart. </p><p>Jaskier reaches out to blindly tangle his fingers in Geralt’s hair as his lover continues to rock into him, slowly and delightfully. He likes that Geralt asks. He doesn’t know many lovers who would bother to ask, even if they <em>did</em> have Witcher-heightened senses to aid them. He manages to reassure Geralt with a few barely-coherent words, and Geralt responds by burying his head in Jaskier’s shoulder and thrusting faster and more urgently, using his strength to move their bodies how he desires.</p><p>Jaskier closes his eyes and indulges wholly in the sensation. He so rarely trusts his partner enough to relax during the act but, after a season of constant fucking, Geralt <em>knows</em> what he likes, and <em>knows</em> what he doesn’t, and Jaskier is more than content to let him take what he needs from their coupling. Jaskier feels safe, and content, even as Geralt’s thrusts turn frantic and his kisses sloppy. </p><p>They used to give each other a warning when approaching climax but by the end of summer, they found they didn’t have to. Jaskier knows when Geralt is close by the keening sounds that fall from his open mouth and knows how to encourage him with a tug of hair and a bite at his bottom lip. Likewise, he knows that Geralt knows <em>his</em> preferences and will come inside him just like Jaskier always begs him to do. What started as a novelty – being able to take Geralt’s seed without fear of consequences – has become something else; a privilege that only Geralt is entitled to, and thus something that has become <em>theirs</em>. When Geralt is far away and his scent has disappeared from his pillow, Jaskier can tell himself that there might still be evidence of him elsewhere. Unlikely, but comforting nonetheless. A little souvenir for their departure. </p><p>Geralt’s last few movements are no more than a slow grind deep within him and then Jaskier feels his climax in a whole new manner. The same, but different. Just as marking. </p><p>Geralt blinks across at him with cloudy amber eyes and a dopey smile, and Jaskier feels his heart pound. He swallows, nervously, doing his best to push aside the sentimental thoughts that threaten to form.</p><p>He is aided in this feat by Geralt’s hand on his cock, stroking him in a manner that Jaskier recognises as his <em>own</em> well-honed technique for pleasuring Geralt when he’s near his peak. Jaskier’s hips stutter at how good it feels, flattered that his technique is good enough to be returned in kind. Geralt’s own member slips out sometime during his ministrations but Jaskier pays it no more attention than a passing shudder as Geralt brings him swiftly to completion.</p><p>Jaskier gasps his pleasure and feels the sensation of Geralt’s hand trickle away with the magic before it comes to rest entirely. </p><p>-</p><p>Jaskier collapses afterwards. Their intense and long lovemaking has rendered him emotional and exhausted. When Geralt comes to lie beside him just as boneless and breathless, Jaskier turns towards him and feels his face flush with heat. The tangle of emotions that he had tried to push aside earlier surge at the sight and begin to swirl dangerously inside him. He feels prickling in his eyes and the accompanying crushing pressure in his chest that signal the onslaught of tears… except, of course, that crying is no longer as easy as it used to be. Another side-effect of the hart root that he hadn’t anticipated nor thought he would miss, but feeling all of this <em>emotion</em> without an outlet causes his hand to clench helplessly beside him; trying to grasp some sanity through the uneasy swarm of sensation in his chest.</p><p>He covers his face in embarrassment and whines in frustration, angrily pounding his fist against the mattress at the realisation that his damn hormones have chosen yet another inopportune moment to run rampant. He ignores Geralt’s concerned frown and rises just far enough to toss the diletto and it’s harness into a far corner of the room to be dealt with later. It’s a fucking mess, just like the rest of his life; Geralt wasn’t wrong about that. </p><p>Jaskier is still sitting on the edge of the bed, attempting to hide his shameful reaction, when Geralt’s large palm, warm and comforting, comes to rest on the small of his back. Jaskier shudders at the touch, startled by such tenderness – and to his embarrassment – a distressed sound escapes from his mouth akin to the wail of a wounded animal.</p><p>“Jaskier?” Geralt asks, all sex-scratched and concerned as he rises behind him. “Are you alright? Did I do something wrong?”</p><p>Jaskier shudders as he is unwelcomingly and forcefully reminded of the <em>last</em> time this happened – when he had cried after sex and Geralt had blamed himself wholeheartedly for the event that was in no way his fault. He may not be crying now but Geralt must still be able to <em>smell</em> his distress and frustration. </p><p>Shame spirals through him at the memory. He curls up even tighter on himself and begins to rock at the edge of the bed, as if motion will send these unwelcome emotions away. Geralt shouldn’t be here. Geralt shouldn’t have to witness his weakness. Geralt deserves so much more than an arrogant, destitute, gender-bending, emotional-wreck of a bardling – </p><p>But then, Geralt’s thumb moves ever so slightly – an awkward, comforting, touch on his back – and this evidence of care gives Jaskier the strength to marshal his thoughts. Geralt chooses to be here, he reminds himself. Geralt said that he “holds him in high regard”. Geralt likes how he looks and sounds and smells… he likes that he’s a man. Geralt doesn’t deserve to carry the weight of guilt for something that is <em>not his fault</em>. </p><p>Jaskier straightens up and forces the emotions far enough down his throat that he can once again verbalise what needs to be said. He turns to face Geralt with a look that he hopes is both amused and apologetic. “It’s just these damn hormones, Geralt. I’m sorry. Nothing’s wrong. That was all lovely, utterly lovely, it’s just…” he clenches and unclenches his fist, trying to find a way to explain the unexpected emotional surge. “Sometimes this just happens. I get really worked up for no good reason. I think I’m just tired or something. If it’s any consolation, I nearly punched the lecturer in Rhetoric the other day because I couldn’t find my quill so please believe me when I say that this is in no way your fault.”</p><p>Geralt’s face softens and he gently tugs Jaskier back towards him as Jaskier continues to fight his internal battle. The Witcher presses his nose into the crook of Jaskier’s neck and inhales deeply, as if his very scent will speak the truth. Regardless of Geralt’s intent, his tender touches do well to soothe Jaskier’s anger; his intense emotions finding relief in Geralt’s sturdy arms. “I understand,” Geralt says at last. </p><p>“You do?” Jaskier asks, twisting around to see him, because even though Geralt has always been kind and understanding there must surely come a point where it’s too much drama, even for him. </p><p>Geralt tilts his head in that affectionate way he does sometimes, and reaches out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind Jaskier’s ear. “I may have located a book on hart root transformations while we were parted. It mentioned that new hormonal balances can take a while to…” he raises his hand to gesture vaguely at Jaskier’s apparent imbalance, “settle,” he concludes. “A second puberty of sorts. It seems… intense.”</p><p>Jaskier’s feels his heart constrict and his lungs expand as a surge of affection rises in his chest. Geralt had taken it upon himself to research physical transformations. Jaskier hadn’t even decided to take hart root the last time they crossed paths but Geralt had still taken the time to read about the process just so that he would <em>understand</em>. Just so he would be able to talk to Jaskier about it like he is now. The gesture is so kind, and empathetic, and understated in a perfect demonstration of the good man that Jaskier has come to know.</p><p>Geralt still looks at him with those steady, soft eyes, and a small smile of understanding and Jaskier’s heart constricts at the sight. He feels the words on his tongue again, longing to be spoken, but he daren’t burden this man with his love too. He can keep hold of that for a while longer.</p><p>Jaskier nods his head, untrusting of his voice. <em>Intense</em> is definitely the word for it. </p><p>“You should sleep,” Geralt says, with a gentle kiss atop his head. “You must be exhausted.”</p><p>And he must be, because Jaskier falls asleep in Geralt’s warm embrace before Valda even comes home. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0034"><h2>34. Chapter 34</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Geralt is a light sleeper and wakes a handful of times in the night to movement beside him followed shortly by the light of a candle, the shuffle of a chair, and the familiar scratch of a quill against parchment. Each time, Geralt eases himself back to sleep, content with the knowledge that Jaskier’s inspiration is likely responsible for the disturbances. It’s not until he is awoken by the sound of incessant pounding at the door and a veritable cacophony of sound beside him that Geralt wakens fully. He cracks open an eye to find the source of the noise – Jaskier dressed in no more than Geralt’s shirt clambouring out of bed with a foot caught in the sheets and another halfway towards the door with Valda shouting on the other side – </p><p>“ – you coming or not, you lazy sod?”</p><p>“I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming,” Jaskier says, throwing Geralt’s shirt back at him with ink-stained fingers and hurriedly picking his own off the floor. “Have you seen my –?”</p><p>Geralt throws Jaskier the moonlight vest that had been tangled somewhere beside him and then rests his eyes again as Jaskier continues to hurriedly search for his belongings and Valda continues to pester him from the other side of the door. Geralt must have been exhausted not to wake with dawn and sleep still tugs at his mind, comfortable in this space and in this bed. “Can I stay?” he murmurs, cracking open an eye as the hunt for clothes turns into a hunt for books.</p><p>Jaskier seems to startle at this question – Valda’s piercing comment about his promiscuity going unanswered – as he stands with books in hand and a satchel over his shoulder, looking perplexed. “Yeah? Of course. Anytime, I told you. Look, I have class until… midday? But we could meet for lunch, if you like? If you’ll be around?” His eyes are hopeful and his fingers fidget and Geralt feels affection well up in his chest at the sight. </p><p>Geralt nods and Jaskier grins before the door bangs shut behind him. Geralt has nearly fallen back asleep when the door is thrown open again and Jaskier comes careening through, tossing things out of his bedside drawer in his hurry to find the offending item. “I forgot, I forgot, fuck, where is it –” </p><p>He finds whatever he’s looking for at last; a black vial with a handwritten label, and measures a dose in its cap with careless hands, spilling as much on the floor as he does in the cap, before downing the dose and heading for the door once more. </p><p>Just as he’s about to leave, Jaskier turns on his heel and pounces on the bed, jolting Geralt and drawing him into a searing kiss. The breath is stolen from his lungs, surprised by its spontaneity and intensity, but the passionate kiss ends just as soon as it began as Jaskier bounds towards the door again and Geralt hears the external door shut.</p><p>Geralt huffs a laugh, still feeling the tingle of Jaskier’s kiss on his lips as he falls back to sleep with a smile.</p><p>-</p><p>Geralt wakes only an hour or so later and makes use of the basin in the corner to clean first himself, and then the abandoned phallus from last night, before locating the garderobe and checking on Roach. When he returns to the room, he examines the newly-penned essays and ballads scattered across the desk, and idly wonders when the scent of ink starting smelling so appealing to him. He tidies what he can but most of Jaskier’s “organised chaos” is too chaotic for him to understand and he mostly just tosses laundry into the communal receptacle in the hall. </p><p>He returns to find the black vial of medication still perched on the nightstand and hesitates at the sight. Geralt knows he shouldn’t intrude. This is likely Jaskier’s blend of hart root tea, the specifics of which are a private arrangement between the user and the alchemist… or, in this case, <em>herbalist</em>. </p><p>He’s sure Jaskier must know what he’s doing. He senses no ill side-effects and the tea is clearly having the effect that Jaskier wants. But usually this complex alchemy is brewed by, well, <em>alchemists</em>, and Geralt hadn’t realised until right this moment but Jaskier had specified a herbalist last night. It’s not that herbalists <em>can’t</em> make tea – hart root is the base ingredient after all, which is very much a herb – but as he understands it, the tea needs a whisper of magic to activate its properties. </p><p>Before Geralt has fully processed his movements, he is already picking up the bottle and reading the delicate handwriting on the side – <em>Arbor Herbal Remedies, Oxenfurt</em>.</p><p>Geralt frowns. He has never heard of any such business.</p><p>-</p><p>Geralt marches through town, following lead after lead, as various townspeople point him towards this supposed herbalist. He knows he ought to stop. He knows Jaskier will call him an “overprotective worry wart” and may even take offense to his meddling in his affairs (or “mother henning” as he calls it) but Geralt’s heard enough horror stories about homemade hart root to outweigh Jaskier’s inevitable protestations. </p><p>The hormonal tea blend has to be personally tailored by a trained professional, not only to match the customer’s desires but also for their own safety seeing as too much activated hart root can cause all sorts of complications. He remembers a case in a brothel two decades ago; the female courtesans drinking a homemade tea blend to prevent their ovulation that resulted in all ten of them experiencing hair loss, panic attacks, and severe fatigue. He remembers walking in and seeing nothing but ghostly figures, too exhausted to even serve him. What’s worse is that a simple birth control blend like they wanted was easily acquired from any remedialist for mere coppers but the Madame was a stubborn lady who insisted on saving every coin she could and thus cut a corner that should not have been cut.</p><p>He wagers that even specialist blends like Jaskier uses will still cost no more than a loaf of bread but he has heard of conmen disguised as merchants who would pretend otherwise, and start-ups who have attempted to brew the complex blend without the appropriate skills. He won’t have Jaskier hurting himself simply because he has no other alternative. </p><p>Geralt finds the business at last, operating from a small house in the market square with a piece of painted driftwood hung over the doorway. The interior looks just as haphazard as the hastily scrawled name; there are crates stacked against a wall and the shelves are half-bare, with more empty glasses than ingredients. A few sprigs of fresh herbs have been planted optimistically in terracotta pots but the majority of their stock seems to be dried and hanging from the ceiling, sad and lifeless. </p><p>Geralt hums his disapproval. </p><p>The sound must attract the attention of the shopkeeper because soon a middle-aged man comes bustling out the back, juggling a sheaf of papers. He is not the cocky youth or conniving witch that he had expected. Instead, the shopkeeper is a tan-skinned man weathered with age, with oval glasses perched on his angular nose, and a polite smile that shows only a sliver of teeth. </p><p>“So sorry to keep you waiting, sir, I’m teaching a class this afternoon and my wife has not yet returned from the market. Chaos, as per usual, I’m afraid,” he laughs, with what seems like genuine amusement. “Trying to find the students’ work while taking inventory. I wouldn’t advise juggling the two if I were you. Papers everywhere!”</p><p>“I’ll take that under advisement,” Geralt says in a monotone, attempting to understand the strange man before him. “Are you the owner of this establishment?”</p><p>“Indeed, I am!” he declares with a bow. “I am Professor Henry Arbor, and I am honoured to own this quaint little establishment alongside my wife, Georgia. Now, Georgie is the most talented alchemist in Redania, and I, no more than a humble herbalist, but together we work in harmony to provide a plethora of services. Whenever the students monopolise my time, you shall find my dear Georgie here in my stead. We’ve no children, you see, the business is our family. Been up and running thirty years or more, only we’ve just had to relocate, up from a town just west from here – Bowdon, have you heard of it?”</p><p>Geralt shakes his head, as apparently a response was expected. </p><p>“Oh well,” Arbor continues cheerily, “so few have. It’s barely on the map I imagine but we liked it well enough. Only moved when a teaching position arised. It’s not every day a commoner like me is invited to interview for Head of Botany at the prestigious Oxenfurt Academy!”</p><p>“Uh huh.”</p><p>“Well, as you can see, we moved in quite a hurry,” he says with another polite laugh. “Everything’s still a little up in the air. Please do forgive the appearance of the place. Never enough hours in the day, am I right?”</p><p>It is possible that Geralt has never met a man so verbose. He wagers that this herbalist would even give Jaskier a run for his money. “Right,” Geralt replies. He decides, what with the amount of time he just lost, that he better cut right to the chase, “You make hart root tea?”</p><p>“Certainly, we do! I source only the finest root and my Georgie has such a knack for gauging blends. She can take one look at someone and know to the grain how much root is required! It’s really quite a marvel. We still insist on regular checkups, of course, to ensure we have achieved the optimum blend. Our patients’ good health is at the heart of our business! Are you here to collect a prescription for someone? Or request a new blend, perhaps?”</p><p>Geralt blinks in surprise. Perhaps the man does not recognise him as a Witcher immune to the body altering properties of hart root but even so, Geralt had still expected this Professor to hesitate – or refuse, even – to serve a man with a warrior’s build. Hormone medications are most commonly used as a contraceptive for women, and of course, for people that wish to alter their bodies like Jaskier. But this herbalist seemingly has no such prejudices and did not even hesitate before offering such services to Geralt. He finds that he likes this odd gentleman more and more. </p><p>He realises he still owes the man an answer. “A question, if that is permitted.” </p><p>“Oh yes, please do, go ahead! I’m so sorry to have assumed you were in the market to purchase. How incredibly rude of me. What is your question concerning, my good Witcher?”</p><p>Geralt frowns, puzzling out how to voice his concerns. “You make specialist blends,” he states, “for those…” he waves his hand, trying to encompass the word he is looking for, “wishing to change.”</p><p>“Of course,” the Professor says sincerely, with a hand over his heart, as if swearing an oath. “It is my highest honour to be trusted with such a task. We have aided many personal transitions over the years, and always for a fair price. It is our utmost pride to be able to bring this service to Oxenfurt. Admittedly, we have encountered some minor resistance since establishing here,” he admits with a displeased twitch of his eyes. “Sadly, that is to be expected. There are always those ignorant few who do not wish to understand, even amongst Academy staff,” he mutters, and Geralt makes a mental note to inquire with Jaskier exactly who those members of staff may be and to have certain words with those people, “but it is a vital service that brings happiness to a wide spectrum of customers right here in Oxenfurt, and I’m afraid, sir, that if you have a problem with such services then –”</p><p>Arbor clenches his fist atop his papers and Geralt scents the first whiff of fear in the man.</p><p>“– well, then I might just have to ask you to seek an alternative provider.”</p><p>Geralt holds his hand up to silence the man before he can further misunderstand. “That is not necessary. I believe you provide your services to a dear friend of mine and I…” Geralt trails off, no longer certain of his purpose now that he’s been reassured that Jaskier is being well taken care of. “I suppose I wanted to thank you. He seems most pleased.”</p><p>That was apparently the wrong thing to say. Professor Arbor gasps and blushes and thanks him profusely (“What an honour! And from the White Wolf himself!”) and then showers him with free herbs.</p><p>“I believe I know of who you speak, good Witcher, and can assure you that it is no trouble at all. It was my pleasure to assist in his blend and his studies as well. To think that narrow-minded fool in the tower wished to – oh!” he says, clasping his hand over his mouth. “Oh no! Forgive me! I shouldn’t say any more. Here, here, take this dwarven spirit, you must need it for your potions. It’s the least I can do. Toss a coin and all that. We’re all very grateful for your work in – oh, is that the time? Nearly midday, I ought to skedaddle, let me just – Georgie!” he calls out the door into the busy market, and then tuts with a fond shake of his head as he turns back to Geralt. “Talking to that silversmith again. The way those ladies gossip, you’d think there wasn’t a secret in Oxenfurt not laid out between them –”</p><p>Geralt doesn’t think the husband has a leg to stand on in that regard, but wisely doesn’t say as much. While the man’s back is turned, he places a handful of crowns on the counter for the complimentary herbs and makes for the door as Professor Arbor continues to call for his wife.</p><p>“No matter,” Geralt reassures him with a clap on the back, “I must be leaving. Thank you for your kindness.”</p><p>“Oh, nonsense, nonsense,” he mutters, sneaking one last bunch of celandine into Geralt’s arms. “Do stop by again. We’ve always got more herbs than we know what to do with.”</p><p>Geralt grunts, rather certain that he’ll make a habit of it like everything else in Oxenfurt, as he ambles back to the Academy to meet Jaskier.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0035"><h2>35. Chapter 35</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>My historical consultant would like me to inform you that <a href="http://www.bbc.com/travel/story/20200302-the-true-origins-of-the-humble-potato">potatoes were not farmed in Europe until the 16th century when they were brought in from the Americas</a>. However, given that this fanfiction is no more than thinly veiled wish fulfilment and that potatoes are unequivocally delicious I have elected to ignore this supposed ‘history’ to include the most holy of all foods in the manner that they deserve. The game did it first. </p>
<p><strong>cw:</strong> it is implied during this chapter that Jakiser cannot afford to eat. if disordered eating and/or effects of poverty are potentially triggering for you, you might want to skip the first part of this chapter and come in midway through when they are discussing Professor Arbor</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Geralt meets Jaskier and Valda for lunch at a cosy little inn in the centre of town and he listens with amusement as they complain (at length) about their morning lecture with Professor Praeter. When the server comes over with their order, Geralt is so distracted by the rare comfort of a hot meaty stew that it takes Valda throwing a bread roll at Jaskier’s head for Geralt to notice that his companion doesn’t have a bowl of his own.</p>
<p>“You’re not eating?” Geralt asks with a frown.</p>
<p>Jaskier shrugs and begins tearing into the bread roll. “I’m not that hungry. Also, it’s a scientific fact that food always tastes better when it’s stolen from your arch nemesis so…” He grins at Valda as he chews his first mouthful of bread and Valda catapults a gravy-covered potato at him in return.</p>
<p>Geralt tilts his head at their bickering, not understanding it in the slightest but not foolish enough to intervene as Jaskier scoops up the potato from the wooden table and stuffs it eagerly into his mouth.</p>
<p>“How was your morning?” Valda asks.</p>
<p>Geralt tries to remember the last time Valda actually engaged in polite conversation with him and fears it may be as long ago as their first meeting where she had been relentlessly flirting with him. He frowns and spears a carrot with his fork. Hopefully this is not a repeat of that occasion. </p>
<p>“Fine. I, uh, went to the herbalist for supplies. Arbor, he said his name was. He teaches at the Academy.”</p>
<p>“Oh, Professor Arbor!” Jaskier exclaims with excitement when he swallows his mouthful. “He’s great! Much better than that wanker Ociscum. I buy my hart root from him, even. A real gossip though. If you spilled any secret desires or divulged a dark sordid history while talking to him then it’ll be in the papers by tomorrow.”</p>
<p>Geralt huffs a laugh and shakes his head. “No. I resisted the temptation to talk. He certainly didn’t though. You came up in all but name, unless you know of any other scholars who have recently faced expulsion.”</p>
<p>Jaskier rubs his hands together with glee and tilts his head back with a full-bodied laugh. “Oh, that’s <em>brilliant</em>. I’m famous! Valda, I’m <em>famous</em>!”</p>
<p>Valda shakes her head at this strange display and asks Geralt for the exact phrasing.</p>
<p>Geralt frowns in concentration as he recalls his conversation with the herbalist. “Something about that ‘narrow-minded fool in the tower’ which I can only assume is the Dean you spoke of.”</p>
<p>Valda scoffs. “Of course. Who else could it be but the Raven of Oxenfurt Tower? Judging us mere mortals from uphigh.” </p>
<p>“Wait,” Jaskier says, pausing their conversation with a raised finger. “But if he said that, then it means Arbor must despise the Dean just as much as we do. You don’t think…?”</p>
<p>Valda’s eyes widen with some knowledge that Geralt is not privy to. “He was <em>interviewing</em> –”</p>
<p>“Exactly. And one minute we’re about to be thrown from the tower and the next –”</p>
<p>Valda gasps, her hand comically falling over her chest as she pitches her voice low and conspiratorially. “You don’t think he <em>said</em> something?”</p>
<p>Geralt glances between the two of them curiously as he gnaws on some gristle. He spits it out. The two of them haven’t stopped staring wide-eyed at each other this whole time. “Have I missed something?”</p>
<p>Jaskier huffs a laugh and takes a swig of Geralt’s watered down ale. “We were in the Dean’s office at the start of term,” he explains, “about to be carted off for our sins, as you know, when suddenly he left to interview the new Botany candidate – presumably our good friend Professor Arbor. Next thing we know, the Dean comes back all chipper and polite and just lets us go with a warning.” </p>
<p>“You think Arbor said something in your defence,” Geralt concludes. He passes his hand thoughtfully over his stubble as he recalls the herbalist’s behaviour that afternoon and how he threatened Geralt for not supporting people like Jaskier. It would certainly be in character. And he would likely be charming enough to change the Dean’s mind without causing offense. “That seems likely.” </p>
<p>Geralt tilts his head in contemplation as the students conspire between themselves. He absently swipes his ale out of Jaskier’s hands, taking another swig before pushing it back to the bard. It would be nice, he muses, for there to be at least one member of faculty looking out for Jaskier after all the hardships he has endured. </p>
<p>Geralt interrupts their eager speculation of Arbor’s motivations to state a thought of his own, “Perhaps Arbor had heard your song disparaging Ocimus and concluded, quite rightly, that you shouldn’t be punished for speaking an inconvenient truth. He certainly seems moral enough to stand by his beliefs, and outspoken enough to come to your defense even at the cost of his own academic prospects.” </p>
<p>Valda snorts. “Please, no one’s that noble,” she says, before gulping down her own flagon of ale. </p>
<p>“You are,” a soft voice interrupts.</p>
<p>Geralt tilts his head to examine the newcomer; a woman in her late twenties with dark skin and bright clothes, smelling strongly of pollen and soil, with a nervous manner about her as her fingers tap at the edge of their table. </p>
<p>Beside him, Valda splutters, choking inelegantly on her ale and turning a fabulous shade of red.</p>
<p>Jaskier bites down on his laughter, bottom lip near-bleeding from his effort to constrain his amusement. </p>
<p>This must be the famous florist then.</p>
<p>“So sorry to interrupt,” Flosimae apologises, casting a concerned eye at Valda, “and to take you by surprise, that was not my intent,” she says, with a blush of her own reddening her cheeks. “Here, let me –” </p>
<p>Flosimae takes a step towards Valda as if to aid her in her plight but this seems to only cause the bard further distress as she splutters and waves her hands in a weak plea for dismissal. Flosimae hesitates, only inches away, and wrings her hands instead as she watches Valda steadily get ahold of herself, dragging in deep and ragged breaths. </p>
<p>“Only I could not let such a sentiment go unspoken,” Flosimae says softly, “for without your selfless bravery, I would no doubt still be trapped in the clutches of that vile man and I… well, your actions certainly seemed noble to me.”</p>
<p>Despite Valda’s apparent recovery, she does not seem any less flustered as she blushes at the florist’s attentions and toys with her blonde curls in an uncharacteristically coy manner. “I, uh, thank you, but it was not really… I mean, anyone would have… I was just doing the right thing.” </p>
<p>Geralt exchanges an amused glance with Jaskier and Jaskier raises an eyebrow as if to say ‘I told you this was entertaining’ before he turns to the florist with a wide grin, thankfully not addressing the conversational catastrophe that they had just witnessed. “Floss!” he exclaims with wide welcoming arms. “What a delight to see you again! You simply must join us for luncheon! Have you yet been introduced to our esteemed and exemplary companion? Sir Geralt of Rivia? The legendary White Wolf, heroic slayer of fearsome beasts, and my much adored and much trusted –”</p>
<p>“Jaskier –” Geralt gently interrupts before Jaskier can continue his spiel of effusive and unwarranted praise. </p>
<p>Jaskier raises his hands defensively. “Sorry, sorry,” he says, before turning to Floss with a wink, “seems our Valdoria isn’t the only one embarrassed by such high praise. Whatever shall we do with them?”</p>
<p>Floss smiles and shakes her head, seemingly relaxing at Jaskier’s easy banter. “Jaskier, so lovely to see you again.” </p>
<p>Geralt is not expecting the hand held out towards him but he manages to grasp it only after a moment of concealed surprise. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sir Geralt of Rivia, slayer of beasts, and much adored companion.”</p>
<p>Geralt huffs a laugh, charmed by her sense of humour and the way it makes Jaskier roll his eyes with a faint blush as he returns the gesture. “And you, Ms Flosimae Hortus. I hope you fair well and the winter is kind to you.”</p>
<p>Floss recalls her hand with a charming smile and curtsies in a manner that speaks of her noble upbringing. “I’m sure it will be when I have such kind and considerate friends,” she says with a soft smile in Valda’s direction, “though you must call me Floss when we cross paths in the future, Witcher, so that all may know we are acquainted.”</p>
<p>Geralt nods in agreement, utterly charmed by the florist as she turns with a smile back to Jaskier. “My dear, it was very kind of you to invite me to luncheon but I’m afraid I must refuse. I am only here to deliver a bouquet to Mrs Voca and must return to my stand by the bridge. Another time?”</p>
<p>“Of course,” Jaskier says without missing a beat. “Though we are done for the most part if you would like some company on the walk back. I believe Valdoria had an appointment by the river this afternoon in any case.” </p>
<p>Valda’s eyes widen and there is a subtle scuffle beneath the table from which Geralt assumes Valda takes her protest.</p>
<p>“Oh, that would be lovely!” Floss says with a bright smile, seemingly unaware of the childish squabble happening before her. “If you’re sure it would be no trouble, that is?”</p>
<p>Valda’s protest die under the florist’s nervous smile and Valda flushes once more, pushing her plate towards Jaskier and rising from her seat, her eyes still avidly avoiding Floss’s gaze. “It would be my pleasure, my lady.”</p>
<p>Valda is so smitten as the florist leads her from the inn that she doesn’t even have any last remarks for Jaskier whose restraint is steadily crumbling into laughter. When the door closes behind them, he finally breaks into full laughter, giggling and cackling at the girls’ behaviour. Geralt finds himself huffing a laugh of his own, something warm and bubbly rising within him when Jaskier falls against his side in laughter.</p>
<p>Geralt looks down at Jaskier and the bard tilts his head on his shoulder to look up in return.</p>
<p>“It’s always like that?”</p>
<p>“Like clockwork,” Jaskier says, with another chuckle.</p>
<p>Geralt hasn’t heard enough of Jaskier’s new laugh, deep and masculine, and he hopes he has reason to hear more of the hallowed sound. Overcome with affection, he cautiously shifts his arm until it lies across Jaskier’s shoulders. The move feels awkward – like rusty joints of armour creaky with disuse –  but then Jaskier hums, light and musical, and turns his face into the embrace, cuddling into him like a contented cat. Geralt exhales his relief and firms his hold as Jaskier shares stories of his friends’ flirtation between bites of bread, and Geralt finds he doesn’t mind at all that he doesn’t get another sip of his ale. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>you have <strong>dat_carovieh</strong> to thank for encouraging me to write the developing relationship between Valda and Floss – hopefully you’ll see more glimpses of them as the story progresses!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0036"><h2>36. Chapter 36</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>cw: homophobia, deception (Jaskier lies to Geralt about his financial situation out of pride), and some “light prostitution” as Jaskier calls it. </p>
<p>if you want to ignore the homophobic arsehole in this chapter then please skip over the whole unpleasant conversation with Samuel and head straight back to Geralt and Jaskier being adorable afterwards - thank you!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I, uh, have another lecture to get to,” Jaskier says when they leave the Alchemy Inn.</p>
<p>He’s lying. Somehow Geralt knows he’s lying. It’s not just the stench of anxiety and the irregular heartbeat but Jaskier’s very mannerisms as well. Jaskier always harnesses such physicality that his every emotion is apparent to anyone paying close attention, and the twitching of fingers and the skittering gaze tell Geralt all that he needs to know.</p>
<p>Geralt’s heart hardens at the lie and the implication that Jaskier might be making excuses to avoid spending more time with him. After a year of their acquaintance, Geralt had forgotten to be afraid of rejection and experiencing it now is more painful than he would have expected. </p>
<p>Geralt crosses his arms defensively across his chest and firms his stance as they stand ready to depart outside the Inn. “You’re lying,” he states, carefully keeping his voice monotone.</p>
<p>Jaskier flushes and begins to protest but Geralt saves him from his embarrassment by clarifying the matter, “You don’t have to make up excuses if you don’t want to spend time with me. I understand. You have a life here and I am intruding. I can make myself scarce if need be. Or leave entirely if you...”</p>
<p>Geralt trails off when he realises that Jaskier is staring at him like a gaping fish; mouth open and closing in wordless anger, face flushed, clenched hands on hips, and then, one hand raises to point an accusatory finger at Geralt. “<em>You</em>,” he starts, “are the single most <em>foolish</em> man that I have ever had the good fortune of meeting.”</p>
<p>Geralt frowns in confusion.</p>
<p>“I don’t <em>want</em> you to go!” Jaskier declares, raising his hands to the sky in frustration. “You nitwit, of course I don’t want you to go, that’s not what this is! I’d spend the entire afternoon with you if I could, I swear it. Only I have…” he trails off with a wince, before awkwardly concluding, “things to do.”</p>
<p>“Things?” Geralt growls, folding his arms once more. </p>
<p>“Deadlines.”</p>
<p>Geralt’s jaw clenches and his eyes narrow. “I asked you last night. You said you had no such commitments.”</p>
<p>Jaskier winces again and begins to defend, “Well, see, <em>technically</em>, that was –” </p>
<p>“You lied to me, Jaskier. <em>Twice</em>.”</p>
<p>Jaskier, at least, looks ashamed for his behaviour – biting his lip, and looking away as if in shame. </p>
<p>Geralt unfolds his arms and tries again, softer this time, now he knows that Jaskier’s avoidance does not relate to his presence. “Tell me what’s going on.”</p>
<p>Jaskier’s eyes flicker to his and then away again, as if he’s still ashamed of whatever this secret is. Then his countenance changes into one that Geralt knows is a facade – his stage persona; all cocky and suave. “It’s no more than a new lucrative business of mine, my friend, no need to –”</p>
<p>“<em>Jaskier</em>.”</p>
<p>He raises his hands in defense. “Nothing illegal, I swear. Just a way to make a few extra coins.”</p>
<p>Geralt raises an eyebrow. Jaskier is from noble birth and surely doesn’t <em>need</em> the money, whatever this secretive new business is, so it begs the question of why he’s even doing it in the first place. “Performances?” he hazards. It seems to be the only extra work that he can imagine Jaskier would employ out of choice. </p>
<p>“Well, that as well, of course, but I was talking about another excellent avenue for exploring my own creativity.”</p>
<p>“Speak plainly, bard.”</p>
<p>Jaskier sags, performance forgotten. The shame returns. “I’m writing essays.” </p>
<p>Geralt frowns. He’s a student, surely that’s what – </p>
<p>“<em>Other</em> <em>people’s</em> essays. I write them, they copy my genius word for word, and then suddenly even the dullest boy at Camber college is capable of a good grade. It’s quite the profitable business given the rampant idiocy amongst young noblemen.”</p>
<p>Geralt recalls the sprawl of papers across Jaskier’s desk that morning and examines the earnest and ashamed expression laid before him, and reasons that Jaskier speaks the truth. “Why do it? Do you need the money?”</p>
<p>Geralt can hear Jaskier’s heart palpitate and the bard shows every sign of being nervous physiologically but then, he shrugs with a disarming smile as if his concerns are inconsequential. “Those moonlight vests weren’t cheap.”</p>
<p>Geralt nods. He recalls thinking at the time that their summer in Beauclair must have cost Jaskier a pretty penny. It seems reasonable that he would come back home and try to make up the funds, or perhaps try to foster some independent finance away from his parents’ estate. Jaskier’s nervousness indicates that he might still be talking around something but as long as the extra work isn’t endangering Jaskier’s health or his lifestyle, Geralt sees no reason to intervene. </p>
<p>He realises he ought to say something supportive and manages to say, “Taking extra work isn’t something to be ashamed of.”</p>
<p>Jaskier huffs a laugh and reaches up to scratch the back of his head. </p>
<p>Another nervous gesture. There is definitely something afoot. Geralt frowns and tries to push the nagging feeling of concern out of mind. </p>
<p>“I suppose you’re right,” Jaskier says with a casual air, “Sorry for not telling you. Just didn’t want you ratting me out to the Dean with that damn moral compass of yours,” he laughs, but it’s hollow, awkward, devoid of eye contact. </p>
<p>Geralt is still frowning, attempting to analyse the conflicting information that he reads from Jaskier’s body. “Hmm,” he muses, listening to Jaskier’s steady heartbeat. “Fine. Go write your essays. Your secret is safe with me.”</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Jaskier breathes a sigh of relief as he walks back to the Academy to finish his midnight scribblings. Sure, Geralt had sniffed out the initial lie but Jaskier had successfully managed to hide the extent of his financial worries and the reason as to <em>why</em>. He knows Geralt wouldn’t hold his penurious state against him – after all, when they first met, their situation was much reversed and Jaskier never held Geralt’s situation against <em>him</em> – but Geralt is sweet and protective and would <em>worry</em> if he knew. He would also, undoubtedly, ask what happened. </p>
<p>Valda is the only person who knows about his banishment from Lettenhove Estate. He can’t bear the thought of anyone else knowing and looking at him with the same pitiful expression that she did when she first saw him cradling the letter on the floor at the start of term. Valda keeps saying he should go to the Bursar or the Landlord and explain the situation – perhaps they could appeal to the Dean and grant him grace on his good grades alone – but Jaskier has too much pride to appeal to strangers for financial aid. Even if they listened to him, they would think him a charity case. </p>
<p>Jaskier doesn’t want to be known as an extricated noble, to be pitied and laughed at, but as the great bard Jaskier! A man with no land! A wanderer without a home!  A romantic concept, instead of a pathetic one. A grand declaration, instead of a weak one. <em>Jaskier of Oxenfurt, Bard of the Northern Kingdoms</em>. It has quite the ring to it. </p>
<p>He’ll be fine. He <em>will</em> be. Between bardic performances, and scholarly essays, and some light prostitution, he’ll be just fine. </p>
<p>-</p>
<p>Jaskier gets lost in the art of essay writing until all three of his assignments are completed. He walks over to Camber college to exchange them, and when one of the boys offers him an additional twenty crowns for a ‘hand’ he doesn’t have the strength to say no. </p>
<p>It feels disloyal, holding another dick in his hand while Geralt is only three buildings over talking to Professor Gascoigne about whatever nerdy historical shit takes their fancy, but twenty crowns will cover the laundry fee for this month and he doesn’t want to dip into his savings any more than he already has. </p>
<p>He used to do this willingly, and for <em>free</em>, he reminds himself as the boy spurts messily into his hand. It’s not like it’s entirely unpleasant either, it’s just that he never used to agree to such proposals when Geralt was in town. </p>
<p>It’s rather unsettling to know that the allure of coin has altered his attitude so significantly.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>Samuel finds him on the way out of the college; leaning against the entranceway with folded arms in a way that is probably meant to be intimidating. It does display his biceps quite nicely, Jaskier supposes. Samuel’s not as well built as Geralt, or Pablo for that matter, but he clearly spends time making himself look as macho as possible, likely in a bid to hide how rampantly queer he is. His pants are tight, his boots are high, and his doublet lies open to reveal a too-small shirt stretched across his broad and hairy chest. His chestnut hair falls in waves across his unmarred cheeks, skin as white as marble, and his green eyes are piercing and quite frankly, the most attractive thing about the man. Jaskier had quite enjoyed readying himself for Geralt’s cock by taking Samuel’s rather average dick up the arse every other week but the fellow is rather dense and rather unpersonable, not to mention particularly callous in bed given that he’s so far in the closet that he can’t even look Jaskier in the eye when they’re fucking. He is also, unfortunately, quite the bully – </p>
<p>“Oi, queer,” he spits, loud enough for any observers to hear. His spittle lands on Jaskier’s boot. Lovely. </p>
<p>“I’m busy tonight,” Jaskier whispers in a low voice, knowing the routine by now. A handjob for twenty crowns was one thing but he’s not about to fuck around with someone for free when his Witcher has promised him another night of company. “Learn to use your right hand, like every other lady lavender in this place –” </p>
<p>There is a hand around his neck and his back pressed against the wall before he can finish speaking. <em>Ah, typical Jaskier</em>, he thinks, <em>always talking yourself into trouble</em>. </p>
<p>“I’m not like<em> you</em>,” Samuel spits with disgust. The spitting thing has to be Jaskier’s number one pet peeve when it comes to this fellow.</p>
<p>Jaskier sighs, and tilts his head the best he can in this compromising position to indicate the loitering students in the hallway around them. The man is very much queer, and likely doesn’t want it to be public knowledge. “I would argue that fact but given our current locale –”</p>
<p>Samuel’s eyes widen and he drops Jaskier in such a hurry that Jaskier stumbles a little upon finding his feet again. “No one would believe you anyway,” Samuel retorts, but his eyes are darting around them as if he’s afraid Jaskier will speak of their clandestine affairs regardless.</p>
<p>“Good thing we won’t have to find out,” Jaskier says with a meaningful look.</p>
<p>Samuel scowls and obediently steps further away. “You’ve never refused me before,” he sneers, looking at Jaskier out the corner of his eye as he straightens his open doublet. These men and their delicate egos, honestly. </p>
<p>“My Witcher’s in town,” Jaskier explains, straightening his own clothes as discreetly as he can. </p>
<p>Samuel snorts in disbelief. “Right, your <em>Witcher</em>. Because hardened monster hunters just <em>love</em> to take it up the arse. They must be crawling all over each other to get their hands on a filthy little queer like you, huh?”</p>
<p>Jaskier flushes in anger and opens his mouth to argue but Samuel just snorts an ugly laugh over his meek protests. </p>
<p>“What? Did you suck his cock one time and now you’re in <em>love</em>?” he mocks, making the word ‘love’ sound like some childish notion Jaskier ought to have grown out of. It works, too. Jaskier feels embarrassed, and ashamed, and even as he speaks, doubts begin to tug at the edges of his mind – because what if he <em>is</em> just a lay to Geralt? There’s no indication that he returns his love. A nice gesture here, an awkward line there, a goofy smile when he thinks that no one’s watching… but what evidence is there, really?</p>
<p>“Please,” Samuel sneers, “you can write all the songs you like about that cat-eyed freak but no one believes a fucking word of it. Even if he were a fairy, you wouldn’t mean shit to him. Witchers aren’t capable of human emotion, remember? Or I guess not, given that gibberish you wrote in Karl’s paper the other week – ‘Misunderstood creatures, more human than monster,’” he quotes, and Jaskier feels his teeth grind at the mockery.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Samuel scoffs smugly, “I heard about that. We all did. You’re lucky Professor Retoryka is a monsterfucker who eats that shit up. But, whatever, enjoy your fictional fuck. I’ll see you on your knees tonight when you realise I’m the best you’re ever going to have.”</p>
<p>Jaskier feels his fist clench as Samuel smirks like the smarmy git he is and strides assuredly down the hall. The boy’s not usually so callous when they’re away from prying eyes – he’s usually all bite and sneer when they’re in public and then clinging and crying behind closed doors – but Samuel’s clearly never been refused anything in his entire privileged life if that’s how he reacts to a simple ‘no’. </p>
<p>Jaskier narrows his eyes at his retreating back and endeavours to never stoop to such lows again. </p>
<p>-</p>
<p>Jaskier is still fuming when he marches back into his dorm and it takes him a moment to notice Geralt sat at the study table with his head in a book.</p>
<p>“What’s wrong?” Geralt asks immediately, tossing his book aside – without even saving the page, the lunatic – and striding towards Jaskier with a frown. “You’re angry.”</p>
<p>“Damn right, I’m angry,” Jaskier shouts, tossing his satchel with some force somewhere towards the sofa. “That <em>wanker</em>. Those damn Camber boys and their privledged, fucking – wait, I’m sorry, how are you here?”</p>
<p>“Valda let me in. She’s in her –”</p>
<p>“Oh,” Jaskier says, following Geralt’s thumb to the closed bedroom door. </p>
<p>Then Geralt’s nose flares, and his frown deepens, and his eyes fall down to Jaskier’s hand… which is covered in dried cum. </p>
<p>“Oh bollocks,” Jaskier says. “It’s not what you think!” he says in a panic. <em>Shit</em>. He must have been so mad at Samuel that he forgot to clean up the evidence of his other, undisclosed, work. “Except, I suppose, it <em>is</em> what you think, but what I mean is that it’s not –”</p>
<p>“Jaskier,” Geralt says softly, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. </p>
<p>The grounding touch calms him immediately – the panic melting away with an exhale and his nervous rambling slowing down to natural stop. </p>
<p>“It’s alright,” Geralt continues, although there is a tightness around his eyes that means it’s <em>not</em> alright. “You don’t owe me an explanation. You did not swear fidelity to me, nor I to you.”</p>
<p>“That’s not –” Jaskier sighs and shakes his head, trying to correct this awful misunderstanding without revealing the extent of his troubles. “I don’t usually… Not when you’re here. I never want anyone else when you’re here.” He flushes at the inadvertent admission, and the raised eyebrow it receives in response, and quickly decides he should conclude, “There were… extenuating circumstances.”</p>
<p>Geralt’s lips tilt up into a crooked smile but the tightness around his eyes remain. “I’m sure there were. So these Camber boys?”</p>
<p>“Oh, right,” Jaskier says, remembering that he was <em>mad</em>, and for a good reason. </p>
<p>
  <em>Did you suck his cock one time and now you’re in <span class="u">love</span>? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Witchers aren’t capable of human emotion.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>You don’t mean shit to him.</em>
</p>
<p><em>Well</em>, Jaskier thinks stubbornly, <em>there’s one sure way to find out</em>. He steels his courage, and looks Geralt straight in the eye. “Is this just a fuck to you?”</p>
<p>Geralt blinks, and then Jaskier watches as a whole array of emotions pass over Geralt’s face. Jaskier tracks every single expression – shock, bewilderment, joy, doubt, contemplation – all expressed with no more than a twitch of muscle but after fourteen months Jaskier can recognise every single one of them. Witchers feel emotions, whatever Samuel and his cronies say. </p>
<p>Geralt seems stuck on contemplation, however, and the implications of that send Jaskier spiralling into a panic again.</p>
<p>He can feel himself start to ramble and can’t seem to stop himself, “Or are we just friends, or friendly, or what have you. I don’t mind if it is just that, necessarily, it’s just I’m rather at the point where I’d like to know where you stand on certain matters, and if you’d like to tell me anything to clarify matters that would be very nice and very much appreciated, so I…” He clears his throat again and asks once more, “Is this just a fuck to you? Or do you…? I mean, are we… <em>more</em>?” </p>
<p>Jaskier realises that his hand is flapping uselessly between them to illustrate what he dare not say, and he recalls it urgently back to his side, clasping and wringing his hands together so tightly that they cannot possibly conduct such nonsense again.</p>
<p>For a moment, Geralt remains frozen under that cleverly concealed mask of his. Jaskier’s heart palpitates with anticipation, his hands clenching and unclenching, and nausea clawing at his throat, as he awaits Geralt’s response like a sinner awaiting judgement. </p>
<p>Jaskier starts to fear the worst when, wondrously, the corner of Geralt’s lips start to tick up into a <em>smile</em>.</p>
<p>Hope blooms in Jaskier’s chest as Geralt’s eyes dart down to Jaskier’s lips and then to his eyes and he says, in a voice that’s gravelly with emotion and cautiously laden with promise, “I don’t think it’s been just a fuck for a very long time.” </p>
<p>Jaskier holds onto every word.  He holds onto his breath too. It seems too good to be true. </p>
<p>Geralt reaches out and Jaskier’s eyes flutter close in pleasure when his thumb strokes his cheek so delicately. “You’ve... <em>become</em> something to me,” he murmurs.</p>
<p>Jaskier’s hands unclasp and his eyes snap open, desperate to see the affection written on Geralt’s face. The soft expression before him tells him everything that he needs to know. Jaskier reaches out in return and grasps Geralt’s arms as he processes the weight of the spoken sentiment. </p>
<p>“For me as well,” Jaskier gasps with palpable relief, “just so we’re clear.”</p>
<p>Geralt smiles again, the corner of his eyes crinkling delightfully. “Good. That’s good.” </p>
<p>The kiss that Geralt bestows him is so sweet that Jaskier nearly swoons like one of the heroines in Valda’s insipid romance novels. It’s slow, and tender, and the gentle way that Geralt cups his waist causes him to sigh longingly into the kiss. They so rarely kiss for kissing’s sake. Perhaps they were both trying to maintain boundaries in their minds. Friends while travelling, lovers while in bed… but, oh, does Jaskier love the inbetween space. When they stargaze with Geralt’s hand in his, when Geralt lets Jaskier tuck his head into his shoulder when he’s tired, when their lips brush cheeks or foreheads or hands. Oh, how he loves it. </p>
<p>“I’m so glad you’re here,” he murmurs against Geralt’s lips, dizzy with the possibility of all the inbetweens. “I’m <em>always</em> so glad you’re here.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0037"><h2>37. Chapter 37</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Geralt kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him as they walk back to their bedroom. As a Witcher, he is trained to keep his emotions at bay but somehow Jaskier can bring them bubbling to the surface with no more than a few rambling words and a tentative smile. Whatever hurt Geralt felt when he sensed another man on Jaskier’s skin are erased by Jaskier’s sweet kisses and earnest words. Jaskier may have many other lovers but Geralt knows he is the only one who has his heart.  </p><p>Geralt doesn’t know what their recent declaration means for the future. They are more than friends and more than bed partners but they both know that his life as a Witcher is unsuited to courting or marriage, and without these traditional paths to follow Geralt doesn’t know how to conduct a romantic relationship. It’s never much mattered before but they’ve been entangled for some fourteen months now and the undefined nature of their relationship has clearly been on Jaskier’s mind as much as it has been on Geralt’s. </p><p>Perhaps this confirmation of mutual affection means that he can just have more of <em>this</em> – the sweet kisses, the casual affection, the meeting of friends – all the tantalising glimpses of something normal amidst the strangeness of his life. </p><p>Geralt entertains a fantasy of returning to Oxenfurt over the years, coming back from month-long contracts to see Jaskier graduate, and teach, and play. Summers spent on the road just like they had this year but interspersed with such freely given affection and lazy kisses amongst the vineyards. And then returning home. A place where Geralt can rest his head, safe and content, with the scent of parchment and ink in the air as he kisses Jaskier good morning.</p><p>He wonders if Jaskier would be content with that life, or if, one day, he may wish for more permanence. A loving wife. A family. Things that Geralt cannot give him.</p><p>Or, perhaps, if he’s lucky, Jaskier might want to join him on the Path instead.</p><p>Geralt doesn’t often think of the future – a dangerous occupation for the Witcher that may not live to see tomorrow – but with Jaskier, it seems he cannot stop the fantasies from occurring. A future with his bard, he thinks, would be a very good future indeed. </p><p>*</p><p>Jaskier is giddy with Geralt’s ardent kisses and the knowledge that he is not the only one for whom their entanglement has elevated from the passionate fumblings of their early acquaintance. He doesn’t know what this means for them – how a relationship with a Witcher would even work – but held in Geralt’s embrace he finds it hard to care about the details. Even if he sees him but once a year, even if they never settle, even if he must set upon the Path never to return to this charming little city, he knows he would be happy if only they can see a future. </p><p>Jaskier closes the bedroom door behind him and is thrilled when Geralt breaks the kiss to make a request because, bless him, Geralt is usually too concerned with what Jaskier needs to request anything for his own pleasure. “I want to taste you,” he growls, and Jaskier’s heart is already racing by the time Geralt’s fingers press against the inside of his trousers meaningfully. </p><p>He remembers Geralt’s eagerness yesterday – his wandering hands, his mouth latched onto his neck like he wanted his lips to be somewhere else entirely – and wonders why he didn’t see this coming. Jaskier doesn’t often have the confidence to let someone between his legs but the handful of times he’s permitted Geralt to pleasure him this way have been very, very good. Unfortunately, he can usually only last a few minutes of this intense scrutiny before the feeling of dissonance overwhelms him, but he wonders if, this time, he might last longer with a suitable distraction. </p><p>Geralt’s lips twitch against his skin – no doubt having smelled his arousal – and as if he is of the same mind, backs away to extract the wooden phallus from the bedside drawer. </p><p>Jaskier grins and tugs him back into a kiss – filthy, this time, filled with the dirty promises of what is to come – as he leads him towards the bed, the two of them stripping eagerly and efficiently until Geralt lies naked above him. </p><p>Geralt affixes the harness very loosely – not using the bottom strap at all – and Jaskier takes a moment to marvel at his ingenuity when the familiar wooden cock comes to lie flat against Jaskier’s stomach but leaves his slit very much accessible. Even twenty-four hours messing around with Valda at the start of term did not result in such creativity, and it’s not as if any of his casual bedmates give the phallus more than a passing glance. Geralt, however, has taken to it wonderfully and applies the lotions almost habitually before taking the wooden member into his mouth as if it’s no different from any other cock. If he’s unsettled by the surge of magic then he doesn’t show it, suckling and licking at Jaskier until he’s driven to madness. </p><p>Jaskier releases a muffled cry but is unable to clarify whether it comes from carnal pleasure or the wondrous sight of Geralt’s lips stretched around his cock. Affection wells in his chest at Geralt’s continual loving and selfless lovemaking, and he reaches down to tangle his fingers in Geralt’s long hair for some purchase as Geralt continues to pleasure his member so divinely. </p><p>Jaskier begins to murmur his name like a prayer as sword-calloused fingers expertly push harness and folds aside to stroke ever so pleasantly against his wet opening. He was right. It is much easier to accept touches like this when there is hard evidence of his manhood lying between them. Jaskier wonders if this is what Geralt was testing yesterday with his flared nostrils and wandering fingers; determining if this is something Jaskier would enjoy. Or perhaps it was instinct. Perhaps Geralt smelled the slick dripping from the inside of the harness and couldn’t resist the temptation.</p><p>Jaskier bucks into the teasing touch, expected but nonetheless potent, and clenches his fist in Geralt’s hair as Geralt pairs the sensation with fast-paced licks at the slit of his cock. His arousal surges and Geralt growls his appreciation into his quivering thigh as he rises before delving his tongue straight into Jaskier’s opening instead.</p><p>Jaskier cries out, clinging on for a shred of sanity as Geralt plunges into his depths. It feels so good. He forgot how good it feels to have Geralt’s tongue twisting and claiming and hungry inside of him. Intense, overwhelming, but so fucking good. </p><p>Geralt’s hand returns to his cock, pumping it methodically, as if he sensed the oncoming anxiety and knew how to keep it at bay. </p><p>Jaskier throws his head back, drowning in the duel sensation of Geralt’s tongue deep in his core and his hand stroking his dick. It’s so good but his emotions are still running rampant and he needs… he licks his lips, wetting his dry mouth, and he knows... Oh, he knows what he needs.</p><p>*</p><p>Jaskier smells divine and tastes just as good. The unrestrained sounds he’s making and the unconscious clenching of his fist in Geralt’s hair fuel his arousal just as much. He loves making the poet incoherent but he knows it’s a fine line to walk; Jaskier enjoys being well-fucked – he likes it fast-paced and passionate and transportative – but Geralt doesn’t want him so far gone that he can’t vocalise any displeasure. He is still haunted from witnessing one of Jaskier’s dissociative episodes and never wants to smell that sour stench of distress in their bedroom again. He knows this is a difficult act for Jaskier to withstand so he’s not surprised when only minutes into his intimate attentions, there is a hand clawing at his naked shoulder, tugging him upwards.</p><p>He knows this shorthand. It means Jaskier needs distracting. It used to mean all sorts of things because they had tried all sorts of things but by the end of the summer it directly translated to <em>I need your cock in my mouth</em>. </p><p>And as distractions go, it’s one that Geralt enjoys very much. He noses at Jaskier’s hips as he rises, urging Jaskier onto his side, and then settling himself on the bed to be his mirror opposite; his feet hitting the headboard while Jaskier’s fall off the end. He smirks at Jaskier across the plains of their stomachs before eagerly plunging his tongue back into Jaskier’s depths and his hand back to Jaskier’s cock, stroking downwards now instead of up.</p><p>Jaskier wastes no time in returning the favour, his warm mouth encasing Geralt’s length and his hand wandering even further, cupping his balls and grasping his behind.</p><p>Geralt gasps at the unexpected brush of Jaskier’s fingers in that intimate area; his mind suddenly filled with ideas that he thought he’d put to bed for now. He remembers the courtesan’s fingers, how they weren’t nimble enough, calloused enough… </p><p>“Geralt?” Jaskier asks him, cautious and quiet. “Everything okay?”</p><p>He realises, belatedly, that his thoughts had effectively halted his movements; his tongue lagging lax against Jaskier’s folds. He swallows his nerves, inhales Jaskier’s comforting scent, and dares to speak his mind – “You can touch me there. If you like.”</p><p>“Here?” Jaskier asks meekly, tapping the pad of his finger against his exposed entrance.</p><p>Even this gentle touch causes a shiver to pass through his oversensitive body and he hears Jaskier groan in response, his forehead coming to rest against his stomach as if he’s just as overcome.</p><p>“Yeah,” Geralt manages to confirm, though his voice is so wrecked, it doesn’t sound like himself at all. “There. Please.”</p><p>Jaskier groans again and suddenly erupts into a flurry of movement, reaching for the bedside table as if he will die if he doesn't. He returns with a vial of oil, catching Geralt’s eye in a bashful but eager exchange, before eagerly swallowing down Geralt’s cock once more. </p><p>*</p><p>Geralt has never let him touch him like this before and Jaskier is <em>high</em> on it. He didn’t even know this was on the table. Geralt – the fearsome monster-hunter, lest we forget – has never once expressed an interest in being on the receiving end of things but now Jaskier’s mind is filled with fantasies of fucking him in every position imaginable. He wonders if he’s taken a cock before. If some lucky bugger out there knows what he looks like, what he <em>sounds</em> like, when he’s being bent in half and railed within an inch of his life. </p><p>Jaskier forces himself to rein in his filthy fantasies. Geralt may not like being taken at all. Perhaps he just likes the occasional finger with a blow job – who doesn’t, right? – but it doesn’t mean he wants <em>that</em>. </p><p>Jaskier takes his deep breath, reclaims a little of his sanity, and then begins to slick his finger in oil. He is going to make this so good for his Witcher.</p><p>*</p><p>Jaskier is making all sorts of muffled moans against his cock as Geralt continues to twist his tongue inside him. He’s always loved this act for the circling pleasure it provides. Every buck of hips, every moan against flesh, every lick and touch and nip of teeth just cycles between them, encouraging the other, building and building, until untenable pleasure takes hold.</p><p>He’s so lost in the scent of Jaskier’s slick and the devilish tongue on his cock that Geralt barely even registers the first circling of fingers around his entrance until Jaskier is pressing <em>in</em>. Geralt breaks away with a strangled moan, overcome with the sensation. He spreads his legs the best he can, urging Jaskier to go deeper. Jaskier whispers all sorts of filth as he does so, pressing that single finger in and in until it can go no further.</p><p>Geralt’s strict hold over his breathing evaporates, panting like a trainee witcher running the Killer as he gasps for breath against Jaskier’s quivering thigh. “Fuck,” he swears. He tries to return his mouth to Jaskier’s heat and his hand to Jaskier’s cock but every time he attempts the feat, Jaskier twitches his finger deep inside him and he <em>can’t</em>. </p><p>Jaskier’s mouth comes away from his cock and he pets Geralt’s thigh soothingly. “It’s alright, darling, just feel it. I want you to feel it.”</p><p>Geralt hides his flustered reaction between Jaskier’s legs and does as he’s told; letting himself focus entirely on the pleasurable intrusion and the warmth of Jaskier’s breath against his thigh. Jaskier pumps the finger once, twice, and then crooks it and twists it until Geralt jerks and lets out a strangled cry. </p><p>For the first time, he understands how Jaskier must feel in bed sometimes – overwhelmed with pleasure, but also with fear – and dives back between Jaskier’s legs, licking that sweet slick from his folds as if its medicine itself, easing his anxiety and assuring him of Jaskier’s attraction. </p><p>Jaskier moans and bucks into the sensation and then before they know it, they’re back to the exchange of mutual pleasure, fucking each other as hard as they’re able before they reach their peak.</p><p>Jaskier is the first to climax and he does so with wet gasping breaths around Geralt’s cock. Geralt groans, bucking towards the heat of Jaskier’s mouth and back onto his finger as he chases pleasure for himself. He’s not far behind, just as wrung tight, when Jaskier grasps at him with the same tugging motion and pants, “Inside me. Please, fuck, just –”</p><p>He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. Geralt scrambles to comply, twisting his body to lie upright beside Jaskier again, as Jaskier unbuckles the harness and cock and sends them careening across the room. Geralt claims his lips for a passionate kiss as he thrusts his desperate manhood straight into Jaskier’s welcoming heat.</p><p>*</p><p>Jaskier moans as Geralt enters him without his usual fear of the act. His earlier attentions have rendered him slick and loose and more than welcoming of Geralt’s cock. Without the phallus, Geralt can lie directly atop of him, their limbs tangling exquisitely close as he thrusts hard and desperate inside him.</p><p>Geralt isn’t quite as close as Jaskier had expected and he feels a second orgasm build as Geralt continues to pound into him. Geralt breaks the kiss with a groan and buries his head in his shoulder, his limbs tightening the hold as if he wants to burrow straight into Jaskier.</p><p>“Stroke your cock,” Geralt growls, his expression beginning to loosen as he approaches orgasm.</p><p>Jaskier frowns, and then gasps as Geralt thrusts and grinds deep against his pleasurable spot again. “I don’t…” he whines again as Geralt retreats. “Have it.”</p><p>Another gasp when he hits the target again. Jaskier arches up into the movement, nails scratching for purchase against Geralt’s back.</p><p>“Yes,” he grunts as his thrusts turn frantic, “you do.”</p><p>Jaskier follows his eyes to his crotch and groans in realistion. Geralt means his <em>clit</em>. </p><p>They’ve done this before, Jaskier remembers, back in Toussaint when Jaskier had first looked in the mirror and saw a man. He had begged Geralt to play pretend and Geralt had done so well, stroking his clit and calling it a cock. But they’re not playing pretend anymore. Perhaps they never were. </p><p>Jaskier had unconsciously begun thinking of his clit as his own little member but hearing the words from Geralt’s mouth sends his arousal spinning out of control as he snakes a hand between them and starts stroking his dick with movements just as desperate as Geralt’s own.</p><p>“Oh,” he cries, not a moment later, dizzy with pleasure from the dual sensations. “I’m going to –”</p><p>“I know you are,” Geralt murmurs, and Jaskier glimpses his face to see him just as ruined.</p><p>“Come on then,” he teases, leaning up to take Geralt’s bottom lip between his teeth and tugging just how he likes. “Come with me.”</p><p>Geralt visibly shudders at the words, seemingly spilling his seed on command as he peaks not moments afterwards. Jaskier isn’t far behind, falling over the edge for the second time that evening as he clings to Geralt’s still-shaking body.</p><p>They both lie entangled afterwards, bodies still absently moving, and their exerted breaths intermingled in the scant space between their lips. </p><p>Jaskier uses the last of his energy to raise a hand and cup Geralt’s face, stroking the open, peaceful expression he sees there with the pad of his thumb. Love threatens to overwhelm him again but it’s not as daunting when there is the possibility that it is returned. </p><p>Geralt sighs and rests his forehead against Jaskier’s, tilting his face so that they can kiss, soft and sleepy.</p><p><em>Yes</em>, he thinks, once more lacing his fingers through Geralt’s hair. <em>Yes, darling, I think you might just love me too.</em></p>
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<a name="section0038"><h2>38. Chapter 38</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Again,” Valda says.</p><p>She strikes the note on her lute and then Jaskier attempts to match the pitch again before going up and down the mode in a running scale, all in a desperate attempt to train his ever-changing voice before the winter exams. His range is better than it was when he first started hart root two months ago, but he’s still not performance ready and it’s hard not to get frustrated at the lack of progress. </p><p>The Arbors had prescribed him a tea specifically designed to be kinder to his vocal chords than most transformative blends, but it might take up to a year for his voice to fully settle – and perhaps even longer for his mind to adjust to his new voice. Every time Jaskier opens his mouth to sing, he has no idea what note will sound. It’s a horrifying ordeal, and Jaskier has endured many recurring nightmares of standing on stage at the Winter Recital and being unable to match pitch, or coming in at the wrong octave, or having his voice just <em>break</em> halfway through the piece.</p><p>“You’re still weak on that top note,” Valda states. “Again.”</p><p>Jaskier sighs and reaches for the cup on the kitchen table to wet his mouth before trying again.</p><p>Valda scowls when he’s finished. “<em>Again</em> –” </p><p>“Has it occurred to you,” Jaskier retorts after another swig of water, “that I may no longer be able to reach the top of that fucking mode even if I <em>can</em> recognise it? You can’t expect me to –”</p><p>“But the panel <em>will</em>. They assigned you an alto piece and they will expect you to sing it. You only have one choral exam this term and we <em>will</em> get you through it, and so…” she says with an impatient wave of her hand, “<em>Again</em>.”</p><p>Jaskier swigs the water while glaring menacingly at his torturer before attempting the exercise one more time. He knows Valda’s right. His voice is on his way to settling, which means next term he’ll be able to choose the tenor piece for his performance exam and hopefully have it nailed by the Spring Concert, but for now he’s still expected to sing alto. The music professor – Hocket – had at least done him the courtesy of an additional ‘vocal fatigue’ lesson so he wouldn’t wreck his new voice before it could settle but that was apparently all that could be done – once you had selected your music choice at the start of term, it was locked in.  </p><p>“Better,” Valda states when he’s done practising. “Your bass notes are wobbly though. Try speaking them to get familiar with the low pitch and then do more larynx exercises until you can control them yourself.”</p><p>“I know how to fucking –” Jaskier snaps before he is able to reign in the flare of rage. He hates how useless this makes him feel. He was one of the best vocalists in their year and now here he is: wobbly, croaky, and uncontrolled. If that wasn’t enough, his entire sense of pitch is thrown off – sometimes he picks up the lute and even <em>that</em> sounds wrong. He pinches the bridge of his nose, suppressing his frustration, before turning back to Valda with an apologetic expression. “Sorry, I know you’re only trying to help.”</p><p>Valda shrugs and puts the lute aside on the table. “You know this would be a lot easier if your body actually got the rest it needed. Better yet, do what I suggested and take a year off Oxenfurt to go play recorder in an ensemble or something. Give your voice a chance to settle.”</p><p>Jaskier shakes his head and begins scouring their rooms for the books he needs for morning class. Giving up his studies, even temporarily, would be giving his parents what they wanted. “This year’s studies and accommodation are already bought and paid for, I’d be foolish not to take advantage. Maybe I should have waited to start hart root until next year but… well, I’m an impatient fool.” </p><p>His thoughts are derailed by the sight of a single woollen sock on the floor; one that is not his own.</p><p>Jaskier smiles wistfully as he places the item delicately on his desk amongst the many papers that he has yet to write. Geralt left at dawn and it’s not as if Jaskier was going to go back to sleep afterwards. Honestly, he’s rather grateful that Valda harangued him for vocal warmups or he’d still be staring at his stack of unwritten papers, too busy recalling Geralt’s departing kiss – lingering, sweet, earth-shattering – to actually focus on the words in front of him.</p><p>“Did you tell him?” Valda asks, as she scruntises his forlorn behaviour from the doorway. Perhaps Jaskier had been pining a little too obviously.</p><p>“That I’m writing essays?” Jaskier asks, willingly misconstruing Valda’s question as he locates his satchel and starts filling it with various school supplies. “Yeah. He knows.”</p><p>Valda crosses her arms, unconvinced. “All of it, Jaskier. Does he know <em>why</em>?”</p><p>Jaskier licks his lips, mouth suddenly dry, as he stoops to collect his books off the floor. “No. It, uh, didn’t come up,” he lies. “Besides, I wouldn’t want him to worry. You know how he gets. The man threatened Professor Arbor just on the off chance he tried to poison me, so I don’t really want to know what he’d do to my parents if he found out they disowned me.”</p><p>Valda sighs, and kicks her foot out to prevent him from leaving his room. “He’s a Witcher, Jaskier. You can’t fool him.”</p><p>“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Jaskier says. “He’s endearingly dense at times. I’m fairly certain he hasn’t parsed any of the six love songs I’ve written him.”</p><p>Valda won’t have it, however. She starts listing evidence on her fingers as she leans against the doorway in her ridiculously puffy dress. “He knows you’re not sleeping well, he saw you skip dinner yesterday, he knows you’re making extra coin – penning essays, at least – but he knows you’re sleeping around even when he’s <em>here</em> and so it won’t take him long to work <em>that</em> out –”</p><p>“That’s hardly –”</p><p>“Hell, he can probably even <em>smell</em> the stress on you –”</p><p>“That’s not how –”</p><p>“Give it time and he’ll notice your stale wardrobe too.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t count on it, Val, the man’s got as much fashion sense as your Aunt Tilda.”</p><p>Valda narrows her eyes and firms her stance. Clearly jokes aren’t going to cut it. “He’s going to find out,” Valda states. “And you know as well as I do that he’ll be pissed he didn’t hear it from you first.”</p><p>“Since when do you give a fig about Geralt’s <em>feelings</em>?” Jaskier sneers, finally pushing past her and into the common room to fetch his lute. </p><p>“<em>Julian</em>.”</p><p>Jaskier sighs at the full name. His shoulders sag in defeat, his defense abandoned as he finally turns around to face her. “I just…” he shrugs, twirling the neck of his lute round and round in his hands in nervous deliberation. “I don’t want his pity,” he whispers. “I’m enough of a burden as it is. I don’t want to give him another reason to walk away.”</p><p>Jaskier is still staring at the ground, wallowing in his own self-pity, when he feels Valda pull him into a gentle embrace. “You’re not a burden,” she murmurs, rubbing comforting circles on his back like his mother used to do. “Not to me, and not to him. Not to anyone. You’re a <em>dick </em>anda talentless hack and the most egotistical wanker I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet, but I love you, and I’m here for you just like you’ve been there for me, alright? We’ll be okay.”</p><p>Jaskier finds himself clinging back, and for the first time since he read that vile letter, the mantra in his head changes pitch – not <em>I</em>, but <em>we</em>.</p><p>*</p><p>Geralt departs Oxenfurt with a heavy heart. Every time he visits, it becomes a little harder to leave. However, winter is settling in and he needs to traverse Kaedwen before the mountain paths become unsurpassable. </p><p>The memory of last night warms him as he sets out on the road – not only Jaskier’s sweet declaration that something deeper laid between them and the pleasant lovemaking that followed – but also the evening spent in music and mead as Jaskier worked to transpose his compositions to suit his deeper voice and Valda studied at the kitchen table, working in silence bar the occasional suggestion to aid Jaskier’s efforts. It felt companionable, and safe, and it scared him how tempted he was to stay in the warmth of Oxenfurt rather than face the icy cold of Kaer Morhen. </p><p>Jaskier had been exhausted afterwards and they had shared no more than a few lazy kisses before he fell into a deep sleep. Jaskier had woken with him at dawn, and tempted him with offers of intimacy that it took every ounce of strength to deny, but Geralt knew that if he fell back into Jaskier’s bed, he would undoubtedly stay for longer than he ought and winter was coming upon them too fast to loiter.</p><p>And so he had bid him goodbye with a lingering kiss that he hoped spoke of his affection and had promised he would return in the Spring. </p><p>“Write to me?” Jaskier had asked, pulling Geralt towards him again.</p><p>Geralt shook his head and regretfully pried Jaskier’s clutching fingers from his shirt. “I cannot. The mountain pass is blocked for most of the season. There will be no messengers to deliver your words, no matter how delightful they may be.”</p><p>Jaskier had smiled cockily. “I’m glad you recognise how delightful they would be. I’m an excellent writer.”</p><p>“You’re a <em>horny</em> writer,” he’d corrected.</p><p>The memory of Jaskier’s laugh keeps him warm even now, as he mounts Roach and steers her north. He will miss Jaskier immensely, especially now he won’t have his letters to keep him company, but he is reassured by their mutual affection, and the knowledge that his return will be welcome when the snow takes its leave. </p><p>-</p><p>It takes a beggar at the side of the road for Geralt to see what he could not see before. It is frosty here at the foot of the mountains and the woman is huddled under a moth-eaten blanket at the crossroads, with a upturned hat before her as she plays a small and battered piece of wood. <em>A recorder</em>, he surmises, recalling the one that lay on Jaskier’s desk.</p><p>The thought of his lover overlaid with this sad scene unsettles him somewhat, and he stops Roach in her tracks as he puzzles out the meaning of his thoughts. Oftentimes, his mind picks up clues without meaning to – little breadcrumbs that can lead to an answer – and this moment feels just as revelatory as it does when he smells rotting flesh and concludes that the villagers are cannibals, or when he’s on a hunt and can pinpoint the subspecies long before he spies the prey. And so, Geralt dismounts from Roach, ties her to the crossroads, and sits down with the homeless woman to meditate, letting the dreary folk tune float through his mind and bring him to the right conclusion – </p><p><em>Jaskier</em>.</p><p>Warmth surges within him at the images his mind concoct. Jaskier’s lazy smile in Beauclair. Jaskier’s bright eyes on stage. Jaskier’s devilish fingers in bed. </p><p>The stench of Jaskier’s anxiety as they stood outside The Alchemy and he said – <em>I’m writing essays </em>– but Geralt knows it’s more than that –</p><p><em>You can never shut her up</em> – Professor Gascoigne said that afternoon before Geralt had corrected the ‘her’ with a ‘him’ because she <em>is</em> starting to understand and he just needs to – </p><p>Jaskier speaks of everything, yet he is not speaking of <em>this</em> –</p><p>Dried spend on his hand. The shame colouring his cheeks. <em>It’s no more than a new lucrative business of mine, my friend</em> – </p><p>Jaskier is offering more intimate services, then, alongside essay writing. The lick of jealousy that Geralt had been harbouring at the thought of Jaskier with another man dissipates in the breeze. If Jaskier needed the coin then that’s – </p><p>But <em>does</em> he need the coin?</p><p>Valda sharing her food. Jaskier stealing his ale. Waking up to the scratch of pen. The bags around his eyes. The stress in his shoulders that not even a good fuck could erase. The ill fitting coat that he has not had tailored. Slow dragging footsteps on scuffed shoes.</p><p>He needs the coin. </p><p>But <em>why</em>?</p><p>Geralt rises from his meditation with a frown. He cannot parse the reason why Jaskier would suddenly be in need of coin – hart root costs mere pennies, and there have been no other significant changes in Jaskier’s life that he is aware of – but Jaskier must truly be ashamed of the truth to attempt to hide its severity. Or perhaps merely proud? He cannot imagine a man as stubborn and as proud as Jaskier begging for aid unless he had no other choice. Perhaps he is trying to resolve his impoverished state alone before seeking alternatives. </p><p>Geralt sighs, feeling guilty that he did not notice his paramour’s struggles until now – and worse, that Jaskier did not feel comfortable enough to disclose his woes to Geralt in the first place. Clearly Geralt has not done enough to demonstrate his desire for partnership if Jaskier is still not being honest with him. Perhaps Jaskier feared Geralt’s pity, or his charity, but this would be awfully ironic given the penniless state that Geralt was in when they first crossed paths.</p><p>Geralt grinds his teeth in frustration, wishing that he had realised the state of things sooner so he could have helped. He doesn’t even know <em>how</em> he would have helped, only that he is now miles away from any opportunity to do so.</p><p>The music beside him stops. “Are you well, White Wolf?”</p><p><em>White Wolf</em>. Jaskier’s name for him. No wonder this woman didn’t scarper at first sight if she has been exposed to Jaskier’s pretty tales of Witchers. </p><p>Geralt feels a fond smile on his face before he turns to squint at the signpost above them. “How far to Lettenhove?”</p><p>“Lettenhove? Sir? Isn’t that westwards by the coast? I imagine that’s still a two week ride away if one were being kind but in weather like this –”</p><p>Geralt realises that it’s not nighttime as he had first assumed when he rose from his meditation, but instead the light has been taken by the looming dark clouds above them. He inhales and tastes the storm in the air. It will be a bad one, indeed. He grunts, and takes another look at the sign. There is no feasible way he has time to divert to Lettenhove to investigate – even if Jaskier would forgive him for such impropriety – but he could make it to the nearest city before the storm hits and purchase some items to send back to Oxenfurt. Perhaps that’s the best he can do in this situation. </p><p>He tosses a few crowns into the woman’s collection and makes to stand. “Thank you for your advice, and for your company.”</p><p>The beggar seems confused when he holds out his hand to her. When she looks up, the blanket over her head slips until he can see a scar stretching across her forehead and into grey hair that speaks of a run-in with wargs a decade or more ago. He has stumbled across too many widows in the wilds with similar scars not to recognise the signs. “We can reach Gelibol before the storm breaks. Come, I’ll buy you supper and a stay at the inn.”</p><p>The woman insists she doesn’t deserve such kindness but nonetheless accepts the offer to ride his steed as they head towards the city. He thinks of Jaskier, many miles south of here, and if the same storm clouds will eventually come to rest over Oxenfurt.  </p><p>Geralt asks for the woman’s name and trade, endeavouring to help at least one person who has fallen on hard times, in the hopes that someone will do the same for his bard many miles away. </p>
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<a name="section0039"><h2>39. Chapter 39</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>If you missed it, last week's chapter was actually a deleted chapter so it's over <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28610133">here</a>.</p><p>no content warnings as such, but we're introducing a new plot thread regarding Jaskier's transition so I've updated <a href="https://docs.google.com/document/d/1dGMfq1CYApIhEQUDD0Yams_PInC1g5oIpd0aBlPgjFs/edit?usp=sharing">the outline of Jaskier's transition</a> for anyone that wants a head's up.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Correctives quite effective, whatever the objective,” Geralt mutters under his breath. These travelling mages and their penchant for dramatics, he muses as he shakes his head in disbelief and enters the house in the village square.</p><p>Snow has begun falling as the weeks sludge into the last month of the year. This is the last settlement before Kaer Morhen and he had stabled Roach with the intention of quick trade before heading into the mountains. </p><p>Normally he has no need for these old village peddlers that believe in dried goat’s feet for luck and a few well-placed words to amend erectile difficulties. They tend to hide their lackluster magic behind extravagant smoke shows and dramatic speeches and are thus of little use to a Witcher… except for today, he hopes. </p><p>“It’s barely past dawn. I’m not open,” a female voice drawls from behind a wooden divide. “Or can’t you read?”</p><p>“I can read perfectly well,” Geralt grunts, already resenting the hostility. “But I’m not in town for long. I can pay good coin if you can assist me now.”</p><p>“Is that so?” she asks, her voice teasing and mysterious like the girls that they churn out from Aretuza. He doesn’t need a <em>mystic</em> for fuck’s sake, he needs – </p><p>All his thoughts derail entirely when the mage steps out from behind the divide. A beautiful woman with raven-dark hair, unblemished olive skin, and sharp purple eyes. Naked, except for a scant towel wrapped around her midsection. Definitely from Aretuza. </p><p>Geralt averts his eyes and suddenly finds the wooden slats of the interior walls wholly fascinating. “Perhaps I should come back,” he says, swallowing his throat which seems suddenly parched. </p><p>“Don’t tell me you’ve gotten shy,” she teases, stepping closer. He can smell flowers in the air. “I was under the impression your needs were <em>urgent</em> and I’d hate to delay a Witcher on his Path.”</p><p>Geralt is still stunned into silence, eyes flickering just once more to her wet skin before jumping away again. </p><p>She huffs her amusement and strides away again. There is a rustle of fabric and he glimpses a silk robe from the corner of his eye. “You <em>are</em> shy,” she teases. “How quaint.”</p><p>He looks back when the black silken robe is affixed around her; the steam from the bath still rising from behind the wooden divide. She is – he can admit – beautiful. But he doesn’t trust mages at the best of times and trusts the ones that hide behind beauty and charm even less. Besides, with such fresh thoughts of Jaskier in his head, he finds that he is not as susceptible to her charms as he would otherwise be. </p><p>“I’m after a potion,” he grunts.</p><p>The mage shakes her head with a laugh. “My, my, we’re awfully quick to the punch. Here I thought I might get your name, Witcher, seeing as you ask a favour of me before sun has even risen.”</p><p>“It rose an hour past,” he can’t help but gripe. When she doesn’t seem amused he acquiesces and gives her his name.</p><p>Her eyes roam across his features in a way that raises his hackles. The way that mages can slip into minds unsettles him, and even more so when he sees the resulting smirk – the mage having found whatever it was she was looking for. “Geralt… I believe I’ve heard word of you.”</p><p>“So has half the Continent,” he mutters, seeing as Jaskier’s song has accompanied his journey north. “Doesn’t make you special. Do I get your name in return?”</p><p>“Yennefer of Vengerberg.” </p><p>He grunts without feeling. “So this potion?”</p><p>Yennefer laughs again and turns towards her supplies, running a long finger along the rows of bottles. “Thirty-five crowns.”</p><p>“I haven’t told you what I want yet.”</p><p>“Oh, haven’t you?” she says with a smirk as she reaches for two empty bottles – one large, and one small, exactly like the ones in Jaskier’s bedside drawer – and Geralt takes a moment to curse mages.</p><p>“You’re in the business of mindreading,” he grumbles with disdain. “I should have known. You mages are all the same.”</p><p>Yennefer fixes him with piercing glare as she lays the bottles on her desk. “If I was like the others, Witcher, I would give you a bottle of swill and charge you for the privilege. Now, cease your petty insults and let me work.” </p><p>Geralt grinds his teeth at her damn attitude but does as he’s told, mindlessly reading the scrawled labels on glass bottles as Yennefer clinks glasses and whispers nonsense and does whatever else it is that mages do. As unsettling as her mental intrusion is, he is also rather glad that he didn’t have to give a clumsy and detailed explanation of the sex potion’s intended effects as he undoubtedly would have had to do with a lesser mage. Yennefer, at least, seems familiar with the concoction.</p><p>Geralt had been wracking his brain for a way to help Jaskier ever since he’d stumbled across the beggar at the crossroads some days ago. Eventually, he recalled that they had used a considerable amount of Jaskier’s clever concoction in their recent intimacies, and Geralt reasons that he is well within his rights to replenish it. Perhaps he will also send along another item or two – a winter care package, of sorts, just as children send to their grandmothers when the snow has fallen too deep to traverse. He hopes that Jaskier will think it quaint and thoughtful, and not recognise it as a desperate attempt to keep him well until they are reunited. </p><p>While in the presence of a mind-reading mage, Geralt restrains himself from fantasising exactly how it will be used but he has a feeling that she knows his desires regardless when she turns around with a completed potion and a smug satisfied expression. </p><p>“The same brew as I made for the blonde in Cidaris,” she says, proffering the two bottles. </p><p>Geralt pockets the potion and hands over the required coin, concealing his surprise at the revelation that Yennefer is the same mage who supplied Valda over summer. An odd coincidence, but not an impossible one. </p><p>“You know…” Yennefer starts with a flirtatious smile. “There are other services I can offer.”</p><p>“Not interested,” he parries, and is very thankful that his fellow Witchers aren’t here to witness him turning down the advances of such a beautiful woman. He holsters his sword carrier and turns towards the door when she calls back to him – </p><p>“I wasn’t talking about me. I was talking about your <em>friend</em>.”</p><p>The very thought of Jaskier is enough to have him pause in his footsteps. He has witnessed how happy this simple brew has made the bard. He can’t help but be curious about what else magic could do for him. “Other potions?” he asks, turning back towards her.</p><p>She shrugs and leans back against her desk, the silk robe slipping open another inch as she does so. Geralt keeps his eyes fixed above her shoulders. “Among other things.”</p><p>Geralt frowns, pondering her meaning. There are likely all sorts of sex potions in her arsenal that Jaskier might enjoy but he has the feeling that isn’t her meaning.</p><p>Yennefer smirks, likely having sensed his confusion. “Do you suppose that I’ve always been this beautiful?”</p><p>Geralt tilts his head, none the wiser. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to answer that.”</p><p>She laughs, her head thrown back to reveal her neck – unblemished and smooth, unnatural in its perfection. “It was a rhetorical question, Witcher, but it seems you’re shy in sharing your opinions as well. Quite the diplomat, aren’t you?”</p><p>“I prefer to avoid confrontation where possible,” he states with folded arms.</p><p>“I can see that.”</p><p>She’s analysing him again. He doesn’t like it. “What are these <em>services</em> you speak of, if they are not potions?”</p><p>Yennefer looks to the side as if she’s lost in thought. “Aretuza is well-practised in the art of physical transformations. They claim it is a sacred ritual but they have been known to take strangers to the chamber in exchange for coin or favour. There is a sacrifice required but knowing your friend –”</p><p>“You don’t know him.”</p><p>“Knowing your <em>friend</em>,” she continues just as bluntly, “he might be willing to accept the terms. If the tea isn’t enough for him, you could suggest that he approach Aretuza.”</p><p>Geralt twists his lips. He doesn’t like it, but then again, he doesn’t like anything that comes out of a mage’s mouth. A mysterious ritual. A mysterious sacrifice. He doesn’t like it at all.</p><p>Yennefer rolls her eyes. “I know what you’re thinking –”</p><p>“I’m sure you do,” he gripes.</p><p>“But they know what they’re doing. He would not be the first human to request these services. With magic, they can mould your body to the one that you see in your mind’s eye.”</p><p>Geralt frowns. He would need to do more research before trusting a mage at their word. Perhaps there will be more information in the library at Kaer Morhen. He could stop by Novigrad on his return to Oxenfurt and conduct more research there if need be. Jaskier may not be interested in further transformation but he ought to know that it is an option, if it is indeed an option. </p><p>“I can tell you don’t believe me,” Yennefer says with a sigh. She turns around and reaches for a quill, scribbling something down on a scratch of parchment. “The name and address of a former visitor to Aretuza, currently residing in Novigrad.”</p><p>He takes the name and pockets it alongside the potion. He nods his thanks and prepares to leave when she calls him back once more.</p><p>“Are you sure I can’t entice you to stay, Witcher? It will be a long few months before you can return to Oxenfurt, after all, and I have a spare couple of hours that I’m sure you could entertain.”</p><p>For a moment, he’s tempted. It will be a long winter without Jaskier and they have no agreement to be loyal, but Jaskier’s dazzling smile plays before his closed eyes and he knows that his heart belongs to the bard and the bard alone. He could lay with the mage for a moment’s pleasure – but if he learned anything from the hollow brothel visit some months ago, it’s that even a good fuck won’t scratch the itch in his heart. He has fallen, and fallen hard. There will be no relief to be found in another’s arms.</p><p>“Thank you,” he returns over his shoulder, “but I cannot.”</p><p>“Perhaps I mistook your shyness for chivalry. Very well. Good luck on the path, Witcher.”</p><p>He nods his farewell and braces himself for the cold winter air that greets him. </p><p>-</p><p>Geralt negotiates a decent price with the courier to transport some goods back to Oxenfurt. The boy informs him that there is a cart leaving south tomorrow, and points the way to a widow that sells wicker baskets. Geralt nods his thanks and browses the market for additional goods once he has acquired a decent sized vessel. He wraps the potions in a pair of gloves, and then a scarf, and then a thick woollen jumper, hoping that Jaskier will excuse the bundle of clothing as protection for the glass vials. And then he spontaneously adds a handful of other things from the market stalls – a bundle of lavender that is intended to aid sleep, a few chanterelle strings from the luthier, a platter of cured meats and cheeses that he thinks Jaskier might enjoy, and the local delicacy of cider and spices intended for mulling, which he hopes will keep Jaskier warm even on these cold winter nights.</p><p>Then comes the hard part. He stands at the courier with a quill in his hand and wonders how on earth to justify the expense in a way that Jaskier won’t take offence. </p><p><em>An apology</em>, he writes, <em>that I cannot write to you, nor keep you company this winter. </em></p><p>He hums his approval. It may not be particularly eloquent or effusive, but it will do. He signs it, double checks the address on the label attached to the basket, and hands the required amount of coin to the courier.</p><p>Snow begins to fall as he walks away and he turns his head towards the Blue Mountains, already cloaked in cloud. There can be no more delays. Geralt whistles for Roach and steers her north –  Kaer Morhen beckons and he must be on his way. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>many thanks to <strong>fannishliss</strong> who theorised seven chapters ago that the mage who supplied the sex potion was Yennefer. I loved that idea so much that I just had to make it a reality!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0040"><h2>40. Chapter 40</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>cw: Valda makes some insensitive jokes this chapter, so to clarify: there is nothing “shameful” about Jaskier’s gender, orientation, or financial situation. Valda just <em>loves</em> being a dick. </p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Valda whistles between her teeth at the expanse of gifts lying on their communal table in the middle of winter. “Can I say I told you so?”</p>
<p>Jaskier curses and tosses Geralt’s – very nice, but very obviously faux-casual – note aside to stare at the goods that must have cost the Witcher at least a couple of hundred crowns, not to mention the additional cost of transporting the large wicker basket all the way from… He checks the tag. Gelibol. Brilliant. That’s not embarrassing at all. </p>
<p>Jaskier can already feel his face heating in shame when he tries to excuse, “Maybe he was just being nice.”</p>
<p>“Uh huh,” Valda says with disbelief, holding up a pair of very-nice, very-warm gloves.</p>
<p>Jaskier sighs and spies the lavender; remembering that Geralt had witnessed his sleepless nights first-hand – along with all the other signs of his impoverished lifestyle – and, like Valda predicted, must have put two and two together. “Bollocks,” he swears, admitting defeat. “He knows.”</p>
<p>“He knows,” Valda agrees, picking up the cider with a contemplative look that means she’s going to steal it later. “On the bright side, the note didn’t mention that he burned Lettenhove to the ground, so presumably he doesn’t know the <em>cause</em> of your shameful destitution –” </p>
<p>“Do we have to call it my ‘shameful destitution’?”</p>
<p>“Would you prefer ‘disowned in disgrace’?” she asks. “‘Penniless for penis’? ‘Impoverished  imprudency’? ‘Queer ruination’?” </p>
<p>“I would <em>prefer</em>,” Jaskier says, yanking the cider from her hands before she gets any ideas, “that we cease talking about this.” He catches sight of the horde of goods again and swears under his breath. “I didn’t want his pity,” he murmurs, as hot shame curls through his gut. “But I don’t know what else to call this if it’s not pity.”</p>
<p>“I do,” Valda says, munching on some hard cheese that Jaskier didn’t even notice her stealing. “Four letters, begins with ‘L’ ends in ‘E’ –”</p>
<p>“<em>Valda</em> –”</p>
<p>“I was going to say ‘lute’,” she says, holding up the chanterelle strings. “It’s not my fault if your mind went elsewhere.”</p>
<p>“I hate you,” Jaskier says instinctively, still reeling with affection and resentment at the sight laid before him. It was sweet. But humiliating. “I don’t know what to do.”</p>
<p>Valda makes a grab for the cider again, and this time Jaskier lets her have it. “We <em>drink</em>.”</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>It’s the dead of winter and by the light of the fireplace in the great hall, the Witchers drink and tell tall tales and boast of their conquests – beastly and otherwise – until the full moon shines through the single-pane windows.</p>
<p>“Oxenfurt ain’t that bad,” Eskel comments when Lambert laments the cost of their whorehouse. “Geralt, didn’t you have some luck with a girl there recently? A student, was it?”</p>
<p>“A student, aye. Not a girl, though,” he corrects, but he supposes the last time he was at Kaer Morhen, he <em>had</em> described Jaskier as such. It baffles him, at his age, how things can still change so much in a year. </p>
<p>Eskel laughs, pounding him on the back, “Ha! A <em>woman</em> then!”</p>
<p>Geralt shakes his head and downs his ale, hoping his brothers will take the news in stride when he tells them about Jaskier’s transition into masculinity. He knows they wouldn’t make trouble if they met Jaskier in person – except for Lambert, perhaps, who makes trouble with everyone he meets – but it’s different when it’s an abstract concept, as he imagines it is to many people who have never thought to question their gender.</p>
<p>“<em>He</em>,” Geralt states firmly, “is no longer a woman. Or possibly never was, depending on how you define these things.”</p>
<p>“How’s that then?” Lambert asks with a scowl and a swig of his ale. “A woman, then not a woman. You fucking a doppler, mate?”</p>
<p>Geralt huffs a laugh despite himself, remembering Jaskier’s song about that very metaphor. “Not quite.”</p>
<p>Eskel holds up his hand as a look of comprehension dawns on him. “Hart root!” he exclaims, banging his tankard on the table as if he’s proud that he solved this riddle which was really not very hard to solve at all. “I knew a lad who took hart root once, back in Velen. A woodsman or something. Muscles bigger than Lambert’s –”</p>
<p>“Hey!”</p>
<p>“– and his chest looked all –” he raises his hands above his own chest and attempts to drunkenly mime what bound breasts look like. “Puffy,” he settles on. “Must’ve been wearing that, uh, linen that they use. The same we use for feline armour, you know? Lunar shards or something –”</p>
<p>“Moonlight,” Vesemir grunts over Eskel’s rambling.</p>
<p>Eskel pounds his fist on the table again and grins. “Yeah! That stuff! Real useful shit. So your girl – sorry, uh, bard?”</p>
<p>Geralt nods, ducking his head so his brothers can’t see the proud smile at how quickly they’ve adapted to the change.</p>
<p>“He’s like that, is he?”</p>
<p>Geralt nods again and drinks his ale in less of a hurry this time. “Yeah, he’s like that. He started questioning things shortly after we met. It’s all, uh, a lot more complicated than I’d realised,” he says with a frown, remembering the summer when Jaskier had clearly been turning things over and over again in his mind. “Some people don’t like being either man or woman. Some people don’t want to take hart root. There are many paths you can take, many choices to consider, and so,” he shrugs, “he took a while to consider. There’s a drag night in Oxenfurt – you know it?”</p>
<p>Vesemir nods. Eskel raises an eyebrow. Lambert looks like he wants to ride to Oxenfurt the very next morn and find out for himself.</p>
<p>Geralt huffs a laugh and shakes his head. “It’s at the Rosebud, Lambert. You’d fit right in,” he says, and smirks at the thought of Mother Licious taking Lambert down a peg or two. Fuck, he’d probably actually <em>like</em> that, the horny bugger he is. “But it was there that Jaskier met others like him, and there that he found out about hart root. He started the tea just three months past.”</p>
<p>Eskel whistles his appreciation for the story while Lambert is still lost in whatever fantasies he’s harbouring about Drag Night, but Vesemir… Vesemir looks at him with scrutiny. “You know an awful lot about this Oxenfurt boy.” </p>
<p>Geralt freezes, realising his mistake. He hadn’t meant to be caught red-handed but in explaining Jaskier’s journey, he had accidentally revealed just how involved he had become in the bard’s life. “He travelled with me during the summer, as my bard,” Geralt says, hoping it serves as justification for their companionship. “He wished to amend my reputation.”</p>
<p>“Waaaait a minute,” Lambert says, finally rising from his stupor. “Jaskier? The Oxenfurt bard? As in, the one with that song – oh! It’s like – <em>toss off your witcher, oh horn of plenty –” </em></p>
<p>Eskel tilts his head back with a roar of laughter. “What kind of bastardised version have <em>you</em> been hearing?”</p>
<p>“The kind you hear in brothels, I imagine,” Vesemir mutters.</p>
<p>As the three Witchers dissolve into laughter and bawdy renditions of folk tunes, Geralt marvels at how fast Jaskier’s fame has spread. Lambert had been in Kovir, and Eskel in Nilfgaard. Two opposite ends of the Continent and <em>yet</em>. </p>
<p>Geralt smiles, filled with pride, and ducks his head before anyone can witness such sentimentality. </p>
<p>*</p>
<p>It is snowing – actually <em>snowing</em> – and Jaskier and Valda collapse into an exhausted heap atop one of the makeshift defences they had used during their drunken midnight snowball fight, giggling, and still weakly throwing piles of snow at each other.</p>
<p>Geralt’s thoughtful gifts keep Jaskier warm even lying here in the frozen courtyard of Oxenfurt Academy as they look up at the full moon. </p>
<p>Valda, however, is shivering beside him. “I’m cold.”</p>
<p>Jaskier huffs a laugh, watching his exhale spiral up into the night. “Then go snuggle up with Floss, I’m sure she’d love to keep you warm on a cold winter’s night like this.”</p>
<p>Valda scowls and folds her arms over her chest. “I wish you’d stop teasing me about that. She’s not like your Geralt, you know, we’re just friends.”</p>
<p>“Is that so?” Jaskier asks with a raised eyebrow, leaning up on his elbow to look down at Valda’s pink-tinged cheeks. “So that’s a friendly blush and a giggle, is it? A <em>friendly</em> invitation to dinner where she awaits you with flowers –”</p>
<p>“She’s a <em>florist</em>, Jaskier. She had them lying around.”</p>
<p>“– <em>friendly</em> sleepovers three nights a week –”</p>
<p>“She’s lonely! I sleep in the spare room!”</p>
<p>“How very chivalrous of you,” Jaskier says with an amused shake of his head. Once Valda takes an interest in someone, she’s normally in their bed within the hour, so he can think of no earthly reason why she is hesitating so with Flosimae. “She’s clearly head over heels for you, Val. I don’t know why you don’t just –” he waves his arms around him in an explanatory manner, “– <em>fuck</em> already.”</p>
<p>Valda flushes. It’s very cute. “Well, there’s no need to be so candid –”</p>
<p>“Oh, I’m sorry, would you prefer ‘making love’? It’s just I didn’t think you were capable of harbouring such soft and tender emotions.”</p>
<p>Valda scowls and pushes him back into the snowy dune. Hard. It’s possible that Jaskier might have done something to offend her. </p>
<p>“Valda,” he says, calling her back. </p>
<p>Valda is wiping something away from her face with a snow-covered sleeve and now it’s very, very probable that Jaskier said something to offend her. <em>Fuck</em>.</p>
<p>“Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean –”</p>
<p>“Oh no, please do carry on,” Valda says, turning back to him with furled fists and a flushed face. “You were telling me that I don’t know how to be <em>soft</em>, how to be <em>romantic</em>. That I’m such a cold and calculating person that I don’t know how to do anything but <em>fuck</em>.”</p>
<p>Jaskier winces. “That’s not exactly what I –”</p>
<p>“It <em>is</em> what you meant though,” Valda says, wiping away another tear. “And you’re right, is the thing. At least with Thomas it was easy. You go to his office, he fucks you, and it’s good except for the fact that it’s terrible and, and that’s all it is, you know? But Floss deserves…” she sniffles, and the sight is heartbreaking because Valda doesn’t <em>weep</em>, Valda normally doesn’t so much as <em>frown</em>. “She deserves romance, and kindness, and a thousand other fucking nice things that I don’t know how to do. Even if I liked women, even if I didn’t have to leave this place in two years and marry some brainless knob of a noble, even if I <em>could</em> love her, I’d have no idea where to even begin.”</p>
<p>Jaskier raises an eyebrow. That was certainly a lot of information to digest. He starts with the most absurd, “You like women.”</p>
<p>“I <em>fuck</em> women,” Valda clarifies, loudly enough that Jaskier is very glad this courtyard is deserted. Jaskier belatedly realises that he’s still lying in the snowy ground, and levers himself to standing as she continues, “Occasionally. And when they’ve got a nice dick. I <em>really</em> like dick, Jask.”</p>
<p>Jaskier snorts a laugh and loops his arm around Valda as they start trekking through the snowy streets back to their dormitory. “I know you do,” he recalls, because he’s fairly certain the only reason Valda fucked him in the first place is because he had a nine-inch dildo in his hands, “but let’s say she’s got a nice big phallus and is willing to fuck you with it day and night. Could you love her then?”</p>
<p>“I think I’d love her regardless,” Valda whispers, suddenly shy. “It’s just... I’ve never been with a woman before. It’s uneconomical.”</p>
<p>Jaskier sighs, sobering quickly. He was raised in a noble household just like Valda and thus understands this cold-hearted statement for what it is. It is difficult for a woman to make independent income. As a female bard, the most logical course of action is to marry a man who travels plenty, owns a wealthy estate with servants who can run the house, and who does not mind you ‘dilly-dallying’ on your lute. This is certainly a combination that is hard to come by given most noblemen’s disdain for their craft, and was undoubtedly why Valda was so reluctant to part with Thomas before she learned of Flosimae’s abuse. To abandon the path you know to take another entirely is certainly a very daunting prospect. </p>
<p>Jaskier must use the same logic to foil her concerns. “Floss has her own business and her own house. That means she has a steady income, and a steady household, and she’s proven that she supports your career as a bard. If you took up with her, you’d might be saying goodbye to banquet halls and courtly invitations, but you could still travel, still compete, still have a life of music… albeit, without the luxury you would have in a nobleman’s lap.”</p>
<p>Valda’s mouth twists as she contemplates this. “I like luxury.”</p>
<p>“So become a very good bard,” Jaskier retorts, as they finally reach their home and stand outside the door. “You love her,” he says, as his final word on the matter, “Don’t be afraid of it. Be <em>thankful</em> for it.”</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>“Geralt, a word,” Vesemir calls.</p>
<p>Geralt winces, pausing on his way to bed. He ought to have known Vesemir wouldn’t drop the conversation so easily. He sighs, and turns around to face the old man. “What is it?”</p>
<p>“The bard in Oxenfurt. You’re attached.”</p>
<p>Geralt tilts his head in acknowledgement. Vesemir’s right, of course, but he doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of admitting it. </p>
<p>“You know the dangers that come with this. You know a Witcher’s life is no life for a human. They are mortal beings who will die from a drowner’s claw or a bandit’s knife or the winter sickness, and you will be left behind.”</p>
<p>Geralt grits his teeth and casts his furious gaze where Vesemir can’t see it. He knows all this – he’d be stupid not to – but it doesn’t make it any easier to hear. Vesemir expects an answer though, and Geralt obligingly nods his head in acknowledgement. </p>
<p>“Good,” Vesemir states. “I won’t lose another Witcher because they were naive enough to fall in love with a human. When he passes, you do not go with him, do you understand? You will not make the mistake of binding your lives together so intricately that you cannot escape once bound. Love is a curse for Witchers.”</p>
<p>Geralt’s eyes snap back to Vesemir, curious as to why he speaks with such passion. Falling in love with Jaskier, even when he thought it unrequited, has never once felt like a curse. It felt like a blessing. He’s been thankful for Jaskier ever since he first laid eyes on him. He wonders who Vesemir lost to make him so bitter. He wonders if he personally knew this supposed Witcher that died alongside his human lover or if it is just a cautionary tale. There is so little that they still know about each other.</p>
<p>Geralt shakes his head, heeding Vesemir’s advice but knowing that it is likely too little too late. “I make my own decisions.”</p>
<p>Vesemir folds his arms and firms his stance, clearly not pleased by Geralt’s answer. “And what decision will that be?”</p>
<p>“That I will return to Oxenfurt until the bard tires of me, and if that is until his dying breath, then I will count myself lucky for it. Our paths have already converged, and I do not have the heart nor the will to unravel them.”</p>
<p>Vesemir nods grimly, but there is also a glint in his eyes that looks a little like pride. “This will hurt you. In the end.”</p>
<p>Geralt swallows his pain at the thought of it – </p>
<p>– Jaskier on his deathbed, old and grey; Jaskier bleeding out from a beast’s claw, gasping his name; Jaskier with crooked fingers, unable to play; Jaskier angry and bitter when he realises he’s thrown his life away for a Witcher; Jaskier wrapped in a dozen blankets and still <em>shivering</em> – </p>
<p>– “I know,” he says, because he <em>does</em>. He knows and he’s not afraid of it. Love is not something to be afraid of. It’s something to be <em>thankful</em> for. “But I cannot regret something that has brought us both so much joy.”</p>
<p>And that, it seems, is all that there is to say. </p>
<p>Vesemir nods, and departs, and Geralt stands immobilised under the light of the full moon, thankful that he is no longer afraid of such a fate. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0041"><h2>41. Chapter 41</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>It's been a while, but there's some new music written for this chapter. An instrumental of a folk song. You can listen / read lyrics / download sheet music over <a href="https://vands38.tumblr.com/post/641221094986153984/written-for-the-fic-return-to-oxenfurt-the">here</a>.</p>
<p><strong>cw:</strong> drug addiction mention, casual homophobia, Jaskier’s ongoing poverty and associated themes</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Winter stretches long this year. Geralt whiles away the dark nights in Kaer Morhen conducting research about magical physical transformation and quizzing Vesemir on the legitimacy of such claims. Vesemir declares that all such magic is madness and that he wouldn’t trust a mage anywhere near his private parts, which admittedly echoes Geralt’s sentiments, so he resolves to wait until the next time he’s passing Novigrad to further his research. Perhaps he can bring Jaskier to the city so he can meet this former visitor to Aretuza himself and ask the questions that he needs to ask. Novigrad is only a day’s ride from Oxenfurt, after all. </p>
<p>When the frozen lake has thawed, Geralt starts the long descent down the mountain path, his usual steady pace quickened by thought of seeing Jaskier again. As pleasant as it was to spend time with his brothers and rest a while, it has been months since he’s been bestowed Jaskier’s sweet kisses and he finally understands how fisstech addicts must feel when denied their fix.</p>
<p>He traverses the Continent as quickly as he is able, taking only the most crucial of contracts on his way south. By the time he arrives back in Oxenfurt, winter has almost dissipated entirely, clinging only to the frosty dew outside the city gates.</p>
<p>He greets Flosimae Hortus when he crosses the bridge and locates Jackon’s armoury in the town square to deposit his equipment for its usual service. His last stop is Arbor Herbal Remedies to trade the rare herbs that he found in the Blue Mountains, but naturally the transaction takes three times as long as it ought, and dusk is falling by the time he has settled Roach in the Academy stables.</p>
<p>At least Jaskier is more likely to be home at this hour. Dinner, drinks, and an entire night making love to Jaskier before falling asleep tucked against his side sounds very pleasant indeed.</p>
<p>It almost feels like coming home, standing outside Jaskier’s door once again. Geralt tugs at his dark shirt as if it might make him any more presentable and wonders if he ought to have purchased some flowers from Flosimae to aid his efforts. Before he left for Kaer Morhen, Jaskier had confirmed that their repeated intimacies had grown into something <em>more</em> and Geralt wonders if his actions ought to reflect this growth. Flowers, in retrospect, would have been smart. </p>
<p>He knocks on the door and waits with barely concealed anticipation at the sound of footsteps the other side, until the door finally opens to reveal – </p>
<p>“Valda.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” she says, eyeing him with scepticism bordering on disdain. “It’s you.”</p>
<p>At least she sounds equally as disappointed by the situation. She turns away, leaving the door open in an ambiguous invitation. </p>
<p>Geralt hesitates only briefly before stepping through the threshold and closing the door behind him. Immediately he notes that Jaskier’s bedroom door is ajar – smelling of sex and ink and everything else Jaskier – but the man himself is nowhere to be seen.</p>
<p>“He’s not here,” Valda says, stating the obvious as she returns to beautifying herself in the communal mirror. “But I’m just about to head out and see him if you want to join me.”</p>
<p>He watches as she loops pearl earrings through her earlobes and notes that she’s dressed in cornflower blue – one of Jaskier’s old dresses, if he’s not mistaken – and it certainly looks as if she’s going somewhere nice enough that Geralt is probably not invited.</p>
<p>“Uh,” he states, glancing at his scruffy boots and his shirt which – now he’s looking at it – is still finely splattered with alghoul guts. “I don’t have a doublet.”</p>
<p>Valda rolls her eyes and throws something at him. “Here, Pablo left this behind the other night. Should fit you.”</p>
<p>Geralt blinks. “Pablo?”</p>
<p>“The baker,” she states, as if he’s meant to know who this fellow is. “Jaskier’s not sleeping with him, if that’s your concern. He just desperately needed some fashion advice, seeing as that <em>god</em> of a man insists on dressing like a blind lumberjack from Skellige. We confiscated that monstrosity as soon as he stepped in the door, but, you know, Witchers have lower standards so...” </p>
<p>It’s a tunic of some kind. Bright yellow and long, with black embroidered patterns along the hem. Needless to say, it’s not something Geralt would choose for himself but if he wants to see Jaskier tonight, he supposes he ought to wear it. He drops his satchel by the communal table and pulls the ‘monstrosity’ over his head. </p>
<p>“You look like a bee threw up on a sunflower.”</p>
<p>Geralt sighs. “Pleasant as always, Valda.”</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” Geralt asks as they walk past the village square, the Alchemy, and the Rosebud. </p>
<p>“Jaskier’s playing at some noble’s estate tonight. An engagement party or something. I don’t know but he got me an invitation and you’re a good beard so –”</p>
<p>“A beard.”</p>
<p>“Yes. A <em>man</em>. So I can sneak my real date – that is to say, Floss – in through the backdoor. These arrogant snobs refuse to recognise her as my partner, you see, and they would certainly never extend an invitation to a tradesperson otherwise. <em>You</em>, however, are a novelty. And there’s nothing rich tossers love more than a novelty. So, not only will I be able to sneak you in to see your beau, but your very presence will keep the rumour mill churning so rapidly that no eyes will fall to me and mine. Understand?”</p>
<p>Geralt nods, following her logic. He ought to have known Valda that would have her own reason for helping him but seeing as it’s an honourable one, he sees no reason to object. </p>
<p>“Yes, so be good, behave, and don’t get us thrown out. These things are full of free wine and free food and Jaskier gets paid two hundred crowns a pop so –”</p>
<p>Geralt raises an eyebrow at the amount of money. He’s been known to take monster contracts for less. </p>
<p>Valda ceases their conversation to charm her way inside as easily as she’d predicted and then they walk into what has to be one of the grandest houses in Oxenfurt. The hall is almost as large as the keep at Kaer Morhen and the place is alight with candles hanging from chandeliers and wall fittings. Everyone is dressed in their fine silks, with elaborate hair braids, and diamonds around their necks, and there is indeed plenty of wine and food displayed artfully atop the long tables that spread down the length of the hall. A hundred or more people are gossiping and flirting and dancing to formal music, and Geralt feels severely underdressed, even in this baker’s fine tunic as many of their eyes turn to him.</p>
<p>“I’m getting a drink,” Valda states and then swans off with a flick of blonde curls down towards the refreshments. </p>
<p>Geralt nods and follows at a suitable distance, having no idea what else to do at these functions other than take advantage of the free food.</p>
<p>He has just acquired a flagon of ale when he spies Jaskier at the end of the hall, leading the small recorder ensemble through some kind of folk song. He instinctively takes a step towards him before Valda comes out of nowhere and halts him with a hand on his arm. “<em>Behave</em>,” she reminds him. “If you distract him mid-set and get him fired, I <em>will</em> kill you, so please do keep it in your pants until he’s on break.”</p>
<p>Geralt huffs in annoyance as she yanks on his tunic and drags him to the side of the room. For some reason, he doesn’t doubt that Valda would make good on her word. Not many people even dare to insult him but Valda’s fierceness apparently knows no bounds. </p>
<p>Instead, Geralt stays in the shadows and watches with fascination as the dancers part and he’s afforded a view of Jaskier in his finest doublet, fingers dancing elegantly over the woodwind as he leans into the start of a chorus. Warmth curls in his chest at the sight, already anticipating having him in his arms once more. The music continues and Jaskier seems to exchange instruments nearly every song, presumably demonstrating his skills as a bard otherwise while his voice remains unreliable. Geralt leans against the wall, watching him with admiration, as Valda does a circuit of the room and the guests continue to make snide remarks about his presence, as if he cannot hear every single one.</p>
<p>Eventually, Valda must get tired of polite smiles and dry small talk and returns to Geralt’s side, grazing on the ample foods before them.</p>
<p>“No florist in their midsts?”</p>
<p>“Not yet. She’ll be along in a few, thank the gods, I’m not sure if I could stand this bullshit for a moment longer. Have you heard them with those freakish ears of yours? Making sly comments about my ‘relationship’ with the Professor like they don’t know exactly what went on there. But, oh no! It’s all about the <em>scandal</em> and my ‘ruined maidenhood’ – like it wasn’t ruined before.” She snorts and crams a grape in her mouth, before seemingly remembering she’s meant to be ladylike and hiding the gesture behind a napkin. “Whatever. Let these bastards get their sordid entertainment where they may. If the only joy they can derive from their pitifully dull lives is gossiping about my sex life then who am I to stop them? <em>Melitele’s tits</em>, to think I nearly became one of them.”</p>
<p>Geralt ducks his head with a smile, trying to hide his pride because he’s fairly certain that it would only be mocked. But if they had been here a year ago, Valda would no doubt be swanning between the eligible bachelors, fluttering her eyelashes and simpering to their whims, just like she had with Geralt upon first meeting him. He had thought her vapid and snobbish during her initial unwelcome flirtations, but now she has disposed of her facade, he finds that he likes her more and more. Valda has become much more true to herself, just as Jaskier has, and he finds himself actually enjoying her company from time to time. </p>
<p>They exchange cutting remarks about nobles for a while until Jaskier leads the crowd into the chorus of a folk song with a voice that’s deep and uncertain and fucking <em>beautiful</em> and Geralt gets caught staring at the curve of his jaw like a man posessed. </p>
<p>“So, what exactly is your plan here?” Valda asks, popping another grape in her mouth and nodding towards Jaskier. “Are you just gonna keep showing up for cockerel’s calls?”</p>
<p>Geralt scowls and opens his mouth to defend himself before he remembers that his intentions were, in part, as impure as Valda implies. He cares greatly for Jaskier, yet from the outside their arrangement must seem very callous indeed. </p>
<p>Valda sighs, seemingly displeased with his lack of answer. She tosses her cake plate aside to look Geralt direct in the eye. “Look, don’t tell him I said this, but he deserves more than a casual fuck. You have no idea how he looks, pining around campus for months on end, like a beggar waiting for scraps of food. It’s pathetic. Which makes <em>me</em> pathetic for putting up with it. I know he doesn’t want me telling you this, because he’s a proud little shit and all, but if you <em>knew</em> what happened when you got back from your little honeymoon in Toussaint then you’d understand why you can’t just treat him like a fun toy that you take out and play with whenever you so please  –”</p>
<p>“It’s not like that,” Geralt growls, incensed at the implication that Jaskier is just a plaything to him. They <em>agreed</em> that their relationship had grown into more… but perhaps Jaskier did not think it necessary to share that conversation with Valda. Perhaps Jaskier didn’t <em>believe</em> it enough to share it with Valda. <em>Fuck</em>. He really should have bought him those fucking flowers. “I care about Jaskier,” he clarifies through gritted teeth. “Greatly.”</p>
<p>“Oh really?” Valda sneers. “Because if you <em>actually</em> cared, you’d stay long enough to find out why he’s at this shitty shindig on a school night, burning the candle at both ends, instead of at home with his head buried in a book. You would have <em>earned</em> his trust. And he undoubtedly would have told you his struggles. But, no, you just turn up, hoping to get your dick wet, without any consideration as to what he’s going through, or how far behind he’s fallen in class, or the last time he slept more than three hours. So either you start paying him like the whore you’re treating him as – because fuck knows he needs the coin – or you step up and <em>be there for him</em>, because this –” she says, waving her hand between Geralt and the distant figure of Jaskier – “is unhealthy, and he’s got enough on his plate right now without <em>you</em> muddling it all up again.”</p>
<p>Geralt swallows his guilt at Valda’s tirade but it won’t seem to abate; lodging in his throat for good. He <em>hasn’t</em> been here. He <em>doesn’t</em> know what Jaskier’s going through. And Valda has every right – as Jaskier’s best friend and mortal enemy – to begrudge him for not supporting him like he ought to have been. </p>
<p>Jaskier hasn’t trusted him with the root of his problems and there must be a reason as to why. Perhaps Valda is right. Perhaps he hasn’t <em>earned</em> the right to his trust. Perhaps Jaskier still feels ashamed about the cause of his impoverished state and Geralt has not yet created an environment where he feels safe to tell him. And no wonder. If Jaskier doesn’t yet see Geralt as his partner, then why would he think to share such personal matters with him? </p>
<p>Geralt ought to have stated his support, or at the very least offered to listen. He didn’t. And now, from the sheer scope of Valda’s concern, it seems apparent that Jaskier’s dire situation has only grown more severe. Geralt had naively hoped that the package from Geibol would support Jaskier through winter but he supposed, while not knowing the root cause, it was like putting salve on a tumour – an empty gesture, and not likely to solve the crisis at hand.</p>
<p>“Things have gotten worse,” Geralt states. </p>
<p>Valda sags, her earlier rage seemingly dissipating at the sight of Geralt’s frown. </p>
<p>“Wait ‘til you see him up close,” she mutters with a grimace. “The boy’s dead on his feet.”</p>
<p>Valda leaves to find her date shortly afterwards, and Geralt stands there for long after she left, stewing in his own guilt as her words echo and echo in his mind. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0042"><h2>42. Chapter 42</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>the usual warnings re: Jaskier's ongoing situation (we are coming to the end of this arc though!)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jaskier swears he comes out in a rash every time he sets foot in one of these places. The cloying scent of beeswax candles, the long tables piled excessively high with food, and the continual din of dull conversation is a combined cacophony that only serves to remind him of the insufferable life that he left behind in Lettenhove. If Jaskier had heeded his mother’s warning and returned home like she’d wanted then he would have been forced to attend pointless soirees like this one every weekend, standing on the sidelines trading petty gossip with the women while their husbands traded in stock. </p>
<p>Now, as the bard, Jaskier is still obliged to attend these things but at least he can dress how he likes and talks how he likes and – most importantly – receive a decent amount of compensation for his suffering. There is no escape from the gossip, however. </p>
<p>Jaskier’s aware that his reputation is rather scandalous nowadays – the queer thing, the gender thing, and now the ‘wrote a song about a professor’s cock to get him exiled from Oxenfurt’ thing – it all adds up to make him quite the topic of conversation. At least the pay’s good. And the music’s good. And Jaskier tries to block out the rest of it. </p>
<p>He takes his break at nine and heads straight for the refreshments table. He hasn’t eaten anything since the morning and he’s so exhausted that even his <em>fingers</em> ache with it. The only way he can feasibly see himself finishing his set is with the assistance of good wine and a platter or two of free food. </p>
<p>He weaves his way past the gossiping hordes of partygoers until the excessive display of food is laid before him. He starts pillaging fruit and pastries in socially acceptable portions, all the while subtly slipping more into his pockets beneath the table. He hopes that the guests will write off his bulging trousers as a man’s private business, or else he’ll have to make up a story about feeding a stray cat… again. </p>
<p>He’s in the midst of his cuisine heist when someone appears beside him, presenting the very goblet of wine that he’d been dreaming about. Tiredly, Jaskier blinks at the visage, until he belatedly recognises its owner. Wine isn’t the only thing that has stepped out from his dreams, it seems.</p>
<p>“Geralt!” Jaskier exclaims with delight, not caring one whit for the errant wine that spills as he springs into his Witcher’s arms and inhales his familiar scent. </p>
<p>He smells just like home, like comfort, like campfires on the open road… and even this brief embrace is enough to make Jaskier sigh wistfully, transporting him out of this vile place and somewhere safe and comfortable, somewhere where he could curl up with his Witcher and never let go. </p>
<p>He must have been truly exhausted not to notice his lover amongst these dull crowds. And, oh, how wonderful it is to be held in his arms again. It’s been too long. Far too long. </p>
<p>“Oh, my friend, how happy I am to see you!” Jaskier declares, before reaching for the wine and downing the goblet in a couple of eager gulps. It makes him feel oddly light-headed. He wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve and passes the empty goblet to the nearest waiter. “Come, I have a few minutes, I’m sure there must be some unfrequented bedrooms where we can become reacquainted –”</p>
<p>Jaskier tugs on his sleeve, determined to get Geralt behind closed doors so they can indulge in little intimacy, but his urgent tugging comes to a halt when he realises Geralt’s hesitancy; the Wicher has not moved an inch, and his expression is pinched and pensive. </p>
<p>“I…” Geralt starts awkwardly. </p>
<p>Jaskier frowns in tandem. Geralt is so rarely nervous that there must truly be something amiss. Jaskier sobers quickly and gently steers him to a quiet corner for other, more sombre activities, instead. </p>
<p>“What is it?” he asks, stroking his hand up and down Geralt’s arm in a manner that he hopes is soothing. </p>
<p>Geralt’s frown deepens. “I don’t come here for... I don’t expect…” he trails off, his head tilting downwards in contemplation. “Hmmm.”</p>
<p>Jaskier hooks his finger under Geralt’s chin and encourages him to meet his eyes. He does – albeit reluctantly. </p>
<p>“This isn’t a cockerel’s call.”</p>
<p>Jaskier snorts a laugh, both at the absurdity of such a crude colloquialism leaving Geralt’s lips and in sheer relief that his troubles are not more severe. </p>
<p>“Oh, darling, I know that,” he says, sweetly cupping the Witcher’s face. “I thought we established that it’s more than that for us... we don’t have to fuck if you don’t want to. And especially not here. I just…” his hand absently strokes Geralt’s jaw, over the stubble that grows there and the scars it hides underneath. He takes a deep breath and dares to speak the truth of it. “I just <em>missed </em>you.”</p>
<p>Geralt’s forehead knocks into his, and it’s clumsy and lovely, and Jaskier wants to spend an eternity just breathing in the same air as him. </p>
<p>“You too,” Geralt returns, as monosyllabic as always, but the emotion he can sense woven into the gruff voice makes Jaskier’s heart soar.</p>
<p>Jaskier can’t resist kissing him any longer, tilting his head upwards to capture his lover in a soft kiss, and then another, thankful that this corner of the banquet hall is dark enough to get away with such intimacies. His heart flutters with every cautious touch on his skin and every sincere press of lips against his own. Geralt has touched him in so many ways and it’s always electric but this is… different, somehow. Gentle. Like he fears Jaskier is going to break beneath him. </p>
<p>“I should have written,” Geralt murmurs against his lips. “You’re busy.”</p>
<p>“I’m never too busy for you,” Jaskier says, looping his arms around Geralt’s neck just to thread his fingers through his hair again. “I <em>always</em> want to see you. I am just sorry that my schedule is so frantic as of late.”</p>
<p>Geralt shakes his head and indulges him in another sweet kiss. “I am thankful for any time that you can give me, but do not expect it in any way.”</p>
<p>Jaskier flusters under his earnest dialogue. Geralt has always been very direct, but it’s grown sweeter over time, and it undoes him so – knowing that Geralt’s affection is so genuine, and not a facade like courting nobles’ dialogue tends to be. </p>
<p>“What about you?” Jaskier asks, playing with the hairs at the back of Geralt’s neck in that way that makes him <em>melt</em>. “How long can you stay?” </p>
<p>“Only tonight,” Geralt laments, but his gruff voice is mitigated by the soft purrs he lets out at the intimate touch. “There is a Baron I must meet with by midday, but I wish to take you away for a couple of days when I return, if you are amenable? To Novigrad?”</p>
<p>Jaskier hums, mentally rearranging the various deadlines, lectures, and appointments he has until he can rescue a couple of days from it. He can’t remember the last time he even had so much as a day with no appointments, let alone three, but if it means more time with Geralt, he’ll make it work somehow. “Next weekend,” he offers. “If that suits.”</p>
<p>Geralt nods with a small smile, and Jaskier cannot resist tugging him closer for another chaste kiss.</p>
<p>Jaskier beams when they break away, already thrumming with excitement. He hasn’t let himself contemplate the idea of taking a break because he feared that slowing his momentum would make it harder to resume, but the idea of a lazy couple of days in Geralt’s company makes him realise just how run down he really is. He’s been so busy juggling his various pursuits in Oxenfurt trying to make ends meet that he hasn’t stopped to smell the roses in a very long time. Perhaps it will do him some good to escape the city for a little while. That little fantasy of dozing in Geralt’s arms doesn’t seem so far away any more. </p>
<p>“What do you have in mind?” Jaskier asks.</p>
<p>Geralt shrugs. “There is someone I wish for you to meet at St Gregory’s and a book I must collect from Hodgson, but aside from that, I have made no plans and intend to take no contracts. We can do whatever you so desire.”</p>
<p>Jaskier smirks and runs his fingers upwards until they are tangled once more in Geralt’s hair and he can tug him downwards for a much filthier kiss. Then he whispers exactly how he’d like to spend those lazy days in Novigrad until Geralt is flushing a delightful pink and Jaskier isn’t the only one with bulging trousers.</p>
<p>“I’ll book us a room at the Kingfisher,” Geralt mumbles, coloured with embarrassment.</p>
<p>“You’d better,” Jaskier grins before pulling him in for a kiss which is likely far too filthy even for this darkened corner. “I have to get back,” he says, stepping away with renewed vigour. “But, do me a favour and pilfer some food? Usually all the good stuff is gone by the time I finish and those little almond pastries are <em>delightful</em>.”</p>
<p>Geralt nods, and despite the amused smile on his lips, Jaskier can see the furrow on his brow that belies Geralt’s concern. Jaskier remembers with some gravity that Geralt <em>knows</em> now – that the Witcher had observed Jaskier’s improvised state during his last visit (just like Valda said he would) and sent a rather obvious care package to that effect. </p>
<p>Jaskier swallows the shame that tries to creep up on him and reminds himself that Geralt isn’t looking at him with pity. Geralt hasn’t acted any differently, or asked for any embarrassing details. He’s just Geralt… being <em>Geralt</em>. So it’s <em>fine</em>. </p>
<p>Jaskier takes a deep breath and backs away onto the dancefloor, once again losing himself in the music.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>“You’re right,” Geralt says, interrupting what seemed like a very sweet moment between the girls.</p>
<p>Valda steps out of Floss’s embrace with a scowl while Floss and Geralt politely nod their greetings to each other. </p>
<p>“Of course I was right,” Valda says haughtily, and then: “What about?”</p>
<p>Geralt inclines his head to where Jaskier plays with as much gusto as a reanimated corpse. He can’t think of a polite way to describe the gaunt body and exhausted manner he witnessed; how even Jaskier’s kisses seemed weighed down with stress, so instead he says, “He looks like shit.”</p>
<p>Valda raises an eyebrow at the descriptor, and Geralt’s annoyed when he finds himself flustered under it.</p>
<p>Geralt clears his throat, and pointedly ignores her; not willing to waste time bickering about his frank description. “I’m going to take him away for a couple of days; let him breathe a little. And I will… state my support, as you said. Listen. Be there. Do whatever I can to ease his burden.”</p>
<p>Valda – for the first time in their recent acquaintance – actually looks at him with something other than disdain. Her lips twitch and her brow furrows and Geralt has no idea what words are going to follow when she at last opens her mouth. “Fuck me,” she murmurs. “That’s not actually a bad idea.” </p>
<p>Her entire world view of him seems to shift as she scruntises him, opening her mouth a couple of times before closing it again, seemingly lost for words.</p>
<p>Floss has no such trouble. She brightens beside them and clasps her hands together eagerly. “Oh, a weekend vacation! That’s so romantic! Isn’t it, Val?” Valda grunts in agreement when she’s pointedly nudged by her date but it doesn’t seem to dampen the florist’s enthusiasm any when she asks, “Where are you going? Anywhere nice?”</p>
<p>“Novigrad.”</p>
<p>Floss’s charming exterior cracks a little as she politely asks, “Novigrad…? You have... <em>been</em> there, haven’t you?”</p>
<p>Geralt tilts his head, recalling the rough docks and the grimy streets of the lower town. Perhaps most wouldn’t view it as a romantic destination but he’s also not sure Jaskier will leave their bed long enough to find out. </p>
<p>“It’ll be fine,” he assures her, and then darts his eyes around the room, no longer finding it at all appealing now he’s spoken to the most interesting person in this place. “I should go,” he grunts. His satchel – once optimistically filled with gwent cards – is now overflowing with stolen food and, besides, he fears that any more time around nobility will result in a rash of some kind. “I feel useless here. Give me your key,” he requests with an outstretched hand, “and I’ll do what I can for him at home.”</p>
<p>Valda tilts her head at him, curious, but does indeed retrieve the key from between the folds of her dress and offers it to him. “Don’t wait up,” she says with a teasing smile.</p>
<p>Geralt rolls his eyes as the girls continue to canoodle, and he’s so eager to leave that horrendous place that it’s not until later – when he’s scrubbing Jaskier’s underwear in the bathhouse – that he realises that he referred Jaskier’s Oxenfurt halls as <em>home</em>. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0043"><h2>43. Chapter 43</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>we're officially past 100k 🎉🎉🎉 (and to think this was meant to be only 30k! 🤣) anyway the estimated chapter count has gone up (yet again) to be around 60 chapters. thank you everyone for sticking with me 💚</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jaskier is exhausted by the time he comes crawling home at midnight. He changes out of his formal clothes, discarding the moonlight vest along with it, until he’s dressed down in his long sleeping tunic. Then he sits at the communal table, mindlessly shovelling stolen food into his mouth while Valda and Floss – still dressed in their formal garb – excitedly discuss things to do in Novigrad. Jaskier struggles to summon their level of enthusiasm at this hour but smiles sappily into his food nonetheless, wondering what on earth sparked this sudden romanticism in his Witcher. </p><p><em>Gone to the bathhouse,</em> Geralt’s note helpfully states, but Jaskier is too tired to parse if it is an invitation or a dismissal, so he just sits there, eating mechanically and trying not to notice when the girls’ chatter turns into kisses instead.</p><p>Valda and Floss have been so disgustingly cute since they’ve taken up with each other that sometimes Jaskier wishes that he’d let them pine away in silence instead. It’s all cute giggles and handholding and even when he hears them fuck it’s more sighs than screams. All this tender-hearted sappiness is so out of character for Valda that he’d be worried if she didn’t look so damn smitten every time her eyes landed on the florist. </p><p>The girls eventually take themselves to bed and shortly afterwards the door opens to the delicious sight of a wet Witcher with rolled sleeves and bulging biceps. Jaskier’s mouth starts watering; his interest immediately piqued. Now he’s ceased activities with Samuel, the only fun he gets is the paid kind, and it’s not as if many men (and the occasional woman) want anything more from Jaskier than his very talented mouth. He can’t remember the last time he had the energy to properly pleasure himself either. Nowadays, it just tends to be a sad wank before falling asleep – sometimes to <em>help</em> him fall asleep, but no one needs to know that. So, all in all, the thought of getting properly fucked for the first time in months makes his thoughts derail somewhat. </p><p>“Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Jaskier flirts, striding towards his Witcher and reaching around his broad body to lock the door. He really ought to get the poor man a key. </p><p>It takes him a moment to realise that the bundle of wet clothes in Geralt’s arms don’t belong to the Witcher – as Jaskier had previously assumed – but are, in fact, his <em>own</em>. </p><p>“Uh,” he starts, because <em>what</em>. “What are you doing?”</p><p>Geralt shoots him an incredulous look before he starts hanging up the wet clothes on the line by the fireplace. “Laundry.”</p><p>“<em>My</em> laundry?”</p><p>“You did it enough for me on the Path.”</p><p>And while that’s true enough, Jaskier was cleaning bloody guts out of shirts in icy cold rivers while Geralt was off muddying another shirt in yet another monster den, so the two really aren’t comparable. </p><p>“I picked up some good lye on the way south and wanted to use it. I hope that’s alright.”</p><p>“It’s…” Jaskier hesitates, because he has no earthly idea if that’s alright. What is one meant to do when one’s casual (or not so casual) lover comes back from months away and instead of sweeping one off one’s feet… does the <em>laundry</em>? “I can afford to wash my own clothes,” Jaskier defends. It’s a lie. Jaskier scarcely has the time to do it by hand either, which is why the pile of clothes in Geralt’s hands is worryingly burdensome. </p><p>Geralt says nothing, so Jaskier wrestles the undershirt out of his hands so he’ll at least fucking look at him.</p><p>“I don’t want your <em>pity</em>,” Jaskier says, when he has Geralt’s full attention. “If that’s what this is, I don’t want it. I don’t want things to be weird, or different, or anything other than what they are. I’m <em>fine</em>.”</p><p>“You’re not <em>fine</em>, Jaskier,” Geralt snaps, wrestling the shirt out of his grasp and pinning it to the clothesline before he can protest. “You’re <em>exhausted</em>.”</p><p>“I –” </p><p>“Your grades are slipping –”</p><p>“Did <em>Valda</em> tell you that? That gossiping little –”</p><p>“<em>Jaskier</em> –” Geralt exclaims, clasping his arms and effectively startling his rage into silence. “I know you’re struggling, and I know you’re too proud to tell me why, but I need you to look after yourself, and if you won’t do it for yourself then I’ll damn well do it for you. It is not <em>pity</em>, or <em>charity</em>, it is because I <em>care</em> about you, and I cannot stand idly by while you suffer.”</p><p>Embarrassingly, Jaskier feels tears build in his eyes. Geralt: ever earnest, ever blunt. “I’m not a child,” Jaskier mutters, petulantly kicking at the floor, stuck somewhere between anger and shame.</p><p>“I know,” Geralt says softly, dropping the laundry to pull Jaskier into a cautious embrace. Jaskier, pathetically, leans into it. “You took care of me when I needed it. I am just asking for the same in return.”</p><p>Jaskier knocks his head into Geralt’s shoulder, overwhelmed. His deep-rooted pride instinctively wants to resent Geralt’s mother-henning but he feels too fucking grateful for any such ill feeling to take hold. He knew Geralt was in dire straits when they first met and eventually, on a sleepless night like this one, Geralt had lain beside him and told him about Blaviken in his own words. Jaskier owes him the same in return. Geralt has earned his trust, and his affection, and if they are to build a partnership outside the bedroom, then it requires that Jaskier contribute to the relationship; it requires that same level of trust. </p><p>Jaskier takes a deep breath for courage, and leans into Geralt’s embrace. </p><p>“They found out,” he whispers into Geralt’s shoulder. “About you. About my ‘queer lifestyle’ –” he spits, using the last of his energy to furl his fists in repressed rage. “About all of it. My mother said if I didn’t come home by first snow and play by their rules then they would cease supporting me.” He grits his teeth, the pain of their rejection still raw. “I couldn’t stand the idea of masquerading as a woman again, or being shipped off to Skellige to marry a stranger and bear children that I have never wanted to bear. And so,” he gasps, and is ashamed to find that his voice is wet with unshed tears. “Here I am. Disowned and destitute. I have no tuition or lodgings for next year, but I wish to stay, for without a diploma to my name, I’m even less desirable as a bard than my queerness already makes me out to be. <em>That</em> is why I need money. <em>That</em> is why I am working every second of every day so I can somehow make enough coin to graduate. And before you ask, Mister Smartypants, no: there are no scholarships available to me. Arbor says he’ll appeal to the Board on my behalf but I don’t see how he can possibly succeed when the Dean would rather expel me than give me a free pass for the final year. I know these troubles must seem trifling to you –”</p><p>“Never.”</p><p>“– and I am sorry I did not tell you earlier, only it brings more shame than I thought possible to be banished from my home and I did not want to… Well, I suppose I did not want you to think any less of me. In a funny way, it wasn’t real if you didn’t know of it, and the last thing I wanted was to burden you with my problems… <em>More</em> of my problems,” he amends. He crosses his arms protectively across his unbound chest and keeps bumping his head against Geralt’s shoulder as if it will ground him somehow. “Please, just, don’t look at me with pity, or act as if anything’s changed. I’ve made the decisions that I’ve made and I don’t regret it. I just need to weather this storm.”</p><p>Jaskier feels the press of a kiss against his hairline and Geralt’s arms tighten their embrace. “Then I shall weather it with you,” he murmurs.</p><p>Jaskier exhales, feeling the weight of the last few months dissipate now he has a partner in which to confide. </p><p>*</p><p>Geralt holds Jaskier close and aches for his misfortune. He’s furious at Jaskier’s parents for disowning him, and furious at the Academy for doing scant little to aid his plight, but he’s also so relieved that Jaskier finally decided to share his troubles with him. Geralt <em>wants</em> to be the person Jaskier confides in. He <em>wants</em> to be there for him. He has craved this level of intimacy and commitment with Jaskier almost since the day they met and he is honoured to have achieved that level of trust. </p><p>Geralt tangles their fingers together and lays it over Jaskier’s heart, the meaning clear: even if I am not here with you, I am <em>here</em>. “Thank you for telling me.”</p><p>Jaskier sniffles and nods his head against Geralts’ shoulder. “I am sorry it took so long.”</p><p>Geralt shakes his head and pulls him in closer. “It is forgiven. And you’ll allow me to help? In whatever way I can?” </p><p>“As often as I can stand it,” Jaskier says, letting out a laugh heavy with unshed tears. “I don’t know how you coped with my charity for so long. Now I’m on the other side of it, I can’t stand it.”</p><p>Geralt shrugs. “It made you happy to take care of me. It was not a hardship to bear after I realised that.”</p><p>“Oh,” Jaskier says, pulling away with a soft smile, as if he genuinely hadn’t realised his own part in it. “I suppose it did make me happy. And you… feel like that… with me?”</p><p>Geralt nods and tucks a stray strand of Jaskier’s hair behind his ear. “Yes,” he says, squeezing the waist which is smaller than he’s ever known it. “It would make me happy to see you well.” </p><p>Jaskier ducks his head, and then starts nosing at Geralt’s throat in a way that he knows means trouble. “What else would make you happy?” he asks, with a coquettish smile and a fluttering of eyelashes.</p><p>Geralt shakes his head. A night between the sheets with Jaskier had certainly been his intention when he arrived in Oxenfurt but now he wants nothing more than to see his bard well-rested. “You can fuck me all you like in Novigrad,” he says, to Jaskier’s raised eyebrows and flirtatious smile, “but right now you need your sleep.” </p><p>Jaskier whines and claws at Geralt’s shirt but Geralt pays it no mind as he scoops his bard into his arms and walks him towards their bedroom. “<em>Geralt</em>,” he whines. “You can’t just say things like that and then expect me to –” </p><p>But then Geralt watches in amusement as Jaskier tosses and turns only a handful of times before falling into a deep slumber.</p><p>*</p><p>Jaskier wakes in the middle of the night – not to panicked thoughts of bills and essays – but to a very good thought indeed. He punches Geralt awake and the Witcher startles to alertness, looking across at Jaskier with a glare that could rival even Valda’s early morning grumps. </p><p>“What?” he grunts.</p><p>“You said I could fuck you.”</p><p>Geralt shrugs and rolls over, attempting to go back to sleep, but Jaskier won’t have any of it. He practically climbs over Geralt to get him to look at him. “You said I could <em>fuck</em> you.”</p><p>“What of it?” Geralt grumbles, nuzzling the pillow.</p><p>“Well, I just mean, did you mean that in a general sense like we’re going to fuck and technically speaking that involves a ‘me’ and a ‘you’, or were you implying… you know...”</p><p>Geralt tenses up beneath him, and then he’s rolling over to look at Jaskier with a curious expression. “I didn’t know you wanted that.”</p><p>“<em>You</em> didn’t know <em>I</em> wanted –” Jaskier blurts with disbelief. “<em>Geralt</em>. <em>I</em> didn’t know <em>you</em> wanted – ” He pinches the bridge of his nose and tries again. “Geralt, if you’re telling me that I could have been fucking you up the arse this whole time and you just <em>didn’t think to mention it</em>, I will be undeniably furious with you.”</p><p>Geralt shrugs, but there’s a smile on his lips that tells Jaskier all he needs to know.</p><p>“You jammy bugger. Been fucking me ten ways to Sunday for eighteen months and didn’t think to mention –”</p><p>“Didn’t know how,” Geralt murmurs, passing a hand over his face. “Some people...”</p><p>And, <em>oh</em>, how Jaskier’s heart aches at the sight before him. He reaches out and cups that beautiful and devastating face in his hands. “You’ve been shamed for your desires before,” he surmises.</p><p>Geralt shrugs, which means ‘yes’.</p><p>“Oh darling,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to Geralt’s temple. “No wonder you feared to tell me. But now we are…” he hesitates because what <em>were</em> they exactly? “Partners,” he hazards, and is pleased to see a glimmer in Geralt’s eye, “you must promise to tell me anything and everything that you desire, whether it be festivities to fellatio. Alright?”</p><p>Geralt hums in response, and gently knocks his head against Jaskier’s as if to say <em>you too</em>.</p><p>Jaskier frames that beautiful face in his hands and kisses him just as sweetly as his Witcher deserves. “Thank you for telling me… or rather, letting me coerce it out of you. I appreciate it, and I will be making very good use of this information.”</p><p>“You’re welcome,” Geralt says, huffing a laugh. </p><p>“I can’t wait to fuck you,” Jaskier says with glee, leaning on his elbows over Geralts’ chest and already envisioning the delight that it will be.</p><p>Geralt flusters under the attention and Jaskier wonders if he’ll be like that in the act itself; all blushing and shy.</p><p>Geralt pushes his hand in Jaskier’s face until he squirms away. “You’re meant to be sleeping.”</p><p>“If you wanted me to sleep, dear heart, then you shouldn’t have enticed me with such devilish thoughts past midnight.”</p><p>Geralt grins and leans up to kiss him and for one delightful minute, Jaskier thinks he’s gotten his way, before Geralt kidnaps his arm and rolls over, pinning it to his chest and forcing Jaskier to curl around his back in what he’s learned is one of Geralt’s favourite sleeping positions.</p><p>Jaskier sighs and nuzzles into the back of Geralt’s neck, drifting back to sleep with pleasant thoughts of making love to his insufferable and wonderful Witcher. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0044"><h2>44. Chapter 44</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Geralt makes his goodbyes to Jaskier at dawn, encouraging the bard to stay in bed as he grazes a kiss atop his forehead. “You need rest.”</p>
<p>“I need <em>you</em>,” Jaskier complains petulantly, grasping for Geralt as he attempts to leave.</p>
<p>Geralt smiles softly and kisses those searching fingers. He knows Jaskier is only teasing but the word ‘need’ still strikes true. Geralt didn’t used to think that he needed anyone, or that anyone would dare need <em>him</em>, but he finds that the thought isn’t as unsettling as it used to be. To be needed is to be wanted – to be <em>trusted</em> – and the notion that Geralt may have become significant enough in the bard’s life to be thought of as necessary (even in this joking manner) is more than Geralt had ever expected. </p>
<p>“You’ll have me soon enough,” Geralt teases in return, slipping his tongue between Jaskier’s lips and making his double entendre very clear. Jaskier groans into the kiss and tries to tug him back into bed – likely to make good on his wishes and take Geralt <em>now</em> –  but Geralt has just about enough mind to resist. Jaskier needs his rest. Geralt needs to fulfil a contract. There is no time to delay.</p>
<p>Reluctantly, he extracts himself from Jaskier’s warm embrace and leaves another lingering kiss on his forehead. “Until Novigrad,” he vows. “I’ll meet you here, Friday morning. Be ready to leave at dawn.”</p>
<p>Jaskier kisses him again, sweet and lingering. “Thank you,” he whispers against his lips.</p>
<p>Geralt tilts his head to the side in confusion, not understanding why Jaskier feels the need to thank him.</p>
<p>Jaskier laughs – Geralt’s confusion apparently writ on his face – and flings his arm in the direction of the common room where laundry still hangs over the fireplace. “For coming, for listening, for <em>caring</em>, I suppose. Sometimes I still can’t believe that you… that we’re <em>here</em>, I mean. When you left that first time… well, I didn’t imagine that you’d ever return. But I am ever so glad that you did.”</p>
<p>“Hmm,” Geralt muses, equally as stunned that they have somehow managed to build something meaningful from the shards of their mutual attraction. “For me as well,” he agrees.</p>
<p> It was a blessing to have Jaskier in his bed, but as his partner? The idea is almost too much to comprehend. Daunting, exhilarating, grounding… it manages to be all these things at once. </p>
<p>Geralt glances out the window to see the sun already risen, and squeezes Jaskier’s hand in farewell. “Take care of yourself –” he hesitates; all endearments he can think to say are foreign and unshapely. Jaskier is not a friend, nor a companion, he is… <em>more</em>.</p>
<p>Jaskier squeezes his hand in return, as if he knows his struggle. “Come back to me,” he urges. “Be safe, and come back to me.”</p>
<p>“Always,” Geralt vows. And with one last kiss, he leaves.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>Geralt rides from the Southern Isle towards the market square, needing to purchase some supplies before venturing into the wilderness of Velen. He is returning the yellow tunic to the baker when he catches sight of the Arbors gossiping outside their store – the shop front much improved from the ramshackle that it once was – with a steady stream of customers passing through the open doorway. </p>
<p>Geralt pauses at the sight, recalling that Professor Arbor had been mentioned last night in regards to scholarships. Jaskier had implied there was nothing to be done but Geralt wagers it might be worth comparing notes with the Professor before admitting defeat. </p>
<p>Geralt tilts his head to the sun and makes a quick calculation. As long as he doesn’t meet any bandits en route – and as long as the Arbors keep chit-chat to a minimum – he should still be able to make his meeting with the Baron at midday.</p>
<p>Decided, Geralt bids farewell to the baker. He stores the fresh loaves in his saddlebags before leading Roach over to Arbor’s store. </p>
<p>“Ah, if it isn’t my favourite Witcher, Sir Geralt of Rivia!” Professor Arbor greets with open arms. “And, who may I ask, is this exquisite specimen at your side? Such a stunning beauty! And a furious warrior to boot, I’m sure!” he declares as Roach, ever the drama queen, starts stamping her hooves and fixing the herbalist with a glare that would knock the armour off even the most vicious of insectoids.</p>
<p>Roach settles somewhat when Arbor reaches behind him to pluck some leaves from a plant and offers the greenery to her in the palm of his hand. “Dandelion leaves,” he explains. “Good for digestion. And, as I’ve recently learned, a favourite of our most loyal steeds.”</p>
<p>“Roach’ll eat anything,” Geralt grunts, but nods his thanks to Arbor nonetheless. “Just like another Dandelion I know.”</p>
<p>“Ah,” the Professor says, suddenly sobering as he wipes his hands on his trousers. “You’re here regarding our mutual acquaintance.”</p>
<p>It’s curious that Arbor recognises Jaskier’s stage persona. Geralt had mentioned ‘Dandelion’ as a test to see how much Jaskier has disclosed to his Herbalist. A great deal, apparently. Geralt tucks the observation away for the time being and states his purpose, “Yes. He said you’re helping him with funding.”</p>
<p>“I am indeed. It seems an awful oversight that there are no bursaries available for students once they have begun their studies. Once I learned of Jaskier’s troubles, I appealed to the Dean –”  </p>
<p>Geralt grunts, his age-old instincts urging to distrust such kindness. “Why?”</p>
<p>Arbor stops short, as if he’s offended by Geralt’s brusqueness, before he chuckles and ducks his head, reaching out to pat Roach before nearly losing fingers in the process. “Your steed is just as forthright as yourself, it seems. Well, I can’t say Jaskier didn’t warn me. I suppose we’re all protective of those that we love.”</p>
<p>Geralt firms his stance and folds his arms, growing impatient at the man’s inability to talk straight. “You seem like a good man, Arbor. But I’ve walked the Path long enough to know that people rarely help others without motivation or agenda. So,” he gestures broadly, “which is it?”</p>
<p>Arbor is visibly taken aback by Geralt’s direct questioning – agape and stumbling. He only relaxes when his wife steps closer to rest her hand on his shoulder, smiling at her approach and covering her hand with his own.</p>
<p>Previously, Geralt hasn’t had cause to speak with Georgia Arbor about anything other than alchemy. She’s a short, portly, and curly-haired woman, with skin almost as pale as Geralt. Her hair is speckled with grey, and her apron fairs equally, with ingredients splattered across it even a half hour past dawn. Georgie has a friendly disposition, with a warm smile and wrinkles that seem born from laughter rather than age, and judging from her gossiping habits, Geralt wagers that there is nothing about Oxenfurt that man and wife do not know. He is curious, therefore, what she has to say about Jaskier. </p>
<p>Georgie smiles, disarming in its friendliness, before she assures Geralt of their intentions in a carefully-measured tone that speaks of years negotiating with difficult patients. “Our involvement with the young man is nothing sinister, we assure you, Witcher. Only that… well, we see the lad every week for his prescription and he’s a rather charming young fellow. Intelligent. Very easy to talk to. And so talented when it comes to that lute of his. As you know, we’ve never been blessed with a child of our own but if we were…” she says, exchanging a look with her husband that speaks of a deep and aching longing. “Well, I imagine we’d be honoured to have a son like our Julian.”</p>
<p>Geralt relaxes his stance, at once understanding why the couple without a child and the student without a family have found themselves getting along. He nods, thoughtfully. “I see. I, uh, apologise for my earlier assumptions. I am glad that he has…” he clears his throat, having no idea how to thank these people for their apparent kindness. “Thank you,” he concludes, before Roach grows restless and blessedly nudges him into a new tangent. “How is your progress? In regards to the scholarship?”</p>
<p>Arbor sighs, and noticeably relaxes now he is not on the receiving end of a Witcher’s wrath. He takes off his glasses and busies himself cleaning them with a handkerchief as he explains the situation. “It is not an easy or simple task, Witcher, given that not everyone is so charmed by the young man as we are. The Dean stated that the Board would hear our case and likely grant funds as long as his grades are sufficient and the scholars of the Academy support his appeal. Consequently, I have been tasked with acquiring a letter of recommendation from every department he studies under. The problem being that there are certain academics with whom I do not see eye to eye.”</p>
<p>“Such as?”</p>
<p>Arbor sighs, and continues with his nervous cleaning of glasses. “Professor Praeter for one – the absolute bore of an Arithmetic teacher – and then, of course, there’s the stubborn mule of the History department, one Agnes Gascoigne…”</p>
<p>“I can speak to Agnes,” Geralt offers. “She is difficult but not impossible, and certainly making progress in regards to Jaskier. I am due to collect a book for her from Novigrad next weekend, and could speak to her upon my return.”</p>
<p>Arbor’s expression is overtaken with relief. “Oh, that would be marvellous. Ernald I think I can persuade with another drink or two but Agnes is… well, anything you can do would be much appreciated.”</p>
<p>Geralt nods his head, and Roach begins to snort and stamp her hooves with impatience. “I must be on my way. Thank you for the advice.” </p>
<p>Geralt begins to turn towards the market square when he wonders if there is advice he can give in return. The Arbors clearly want to help Jaskier and are struggling to do so, perhaps he can enlighten them as to a solution without jeopardizing Jaskier’s trust.  </p>
<p>Out of the corner of his eye, Geralt glimpses two children playing in the street and when one tosses a ball at the other, the sight jolts a memory from a few months ago. Valda had thrown food at Jaskier like that – playful, and unthinking – and Jaskier had <em>eaten</em>. And again, last night, when Geralt had left the stolen food on the table, he had found it gone upon his return. Jaskier will eat, if he doesn’t think food is given out of charity.  </p>
<p>“Our mutual acquaintance,” Geralt says carefully, ensuring that the Arbors understand his meaning. “He was raised well. He struggles to accept outright charity, but invite him into your home, distract him with good conversation, and I wager that he will eat anything you put before him.”</p>
<p>The couple look <em>relieved</em> at his suggestion and Geralt feels assured that they will take care of Jaskier in his absence. The Professor tilts his head in understanding, and squeezes his wife’s hand. “Thank you, Sir Witcher, for your advice in kind. May you encounter fair weather on the Path.”</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Jaskier wakes for the second time around midday, feeling more well rested than he has in months. It feels like a <em>weight</em> has been lifted after confessing the reality of his situation to Geralt. Sweet, sweet Geralt – who listened to his woes with patient understanding, who kissed him softly and assured him he wasn’t alone, who laid beside him all night long, requesting no more than a parting kiss…</p>
<p>Somehow Geralt has accepted this utter disaster of a bard into his life, seemingly without regret, and Jaskier is ever so thankful for it. The Witcher speaks of their future with a smile. He professes his desire for Jaskier without shame. He accepts all that Jaskier is – his rambling nature, and his changing body, and his stupid pride that nearly broke the trust between them. He accepts every aspect of him. </p>
<p>Jaskier has not desired anyone but Geralt in so long that now, when he contemplates the idea of marriage, he almost understands the appeal of it. To wake up every day beside Geralt would be a <em>blessing…</em> and an impossibility, he remembers with agony. Witchers do not marry. Witchers do not age. There is no “growing old” with Geralt. There may be brief happiness before a bitter end – an exciting life of travel and adventure before Jaskier grows too feeble, or Geralt dies in the jaws of a beast. But the “happily ever afters” that Valda reads about in those trite romance novels of hers are likely not applicable to the story of the monster hunter and the destitute bard. </p>
<p>Jaskier sighs and reaches his hand across the bedsheets, searching for the warm indentation of his lover beside him, only to find no evidence of his presence. Geralt never leaves anything behind when he leaves. Perhaps that is Jaskier what he can offer him upon his return – not just a place to rest his head, but a place to store his belongings too. A shelf for his potions and a cupboard for his clothes. A little taste of domesticity, and a promise that he will return. </p>
<p><em>Always</em>, Geralt had said. He will always return. </p>
<p>Jaskier likes the sound of that.</p>
<p>Jaskier allows himself another minute to fantasise of their future before rising for the day. He promised he would take care of himself – if not for his own sake, then for Geralt’s. <em>It would make me happy to see you well</em>, Geralt said, like he knew that Jaskier’s only desire was to see his Witcher happy. </p>
<p>
  <em>You took care of me when I needed it. I’m asking for the same in return.</em>
</p>
<p>Jaskier cannot argue against such logic. They take care of each other, like all good partners do. There is no shame in the winter clothes that lie on the back of his chair, or the clean underwear drying over the hearth, or the fresh bread that has been mysteriously delivered to his door. It is not pity, he realises, but <em>love</em>. </p>
<p>It seems absurd, but as he sits at the desk that morning, penning another stranger’s essay while wrapped in warm blankets and relishing the taste of fresh bread, he feels cocooned in Geralt’s embrace long after he has parted.  </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I apologise in advance if there is no update for the next week or two. I'm normally a few chapters ahead because I write arc-by-arc but the RL vibe is so Bleak right now that I've fallen behind. The Novigrad arc is important and I don't want to make any mistakes by rushing it, so I'll only start posting the new arc once I know it's complete and has been run past the sensitivity readers. I apologise if this results in a short interlude, but I thank you for bearing with me. &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0045"><h2>45. Chapter 45</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>we're back! &amp; with <a href="https://vands38.tumblr.com/post/644650495787614208/written-for-the-fic-return-to-oxenfurt-the">new music</a>!</p>
<p>notes on historical accuracy: technically, quiche is a <em>late</em> medieval thing (14/15th century) and I’m likely referencing it a century too soon BUT seeing as the Witcher 3 has fucking <em>tarte tatin</em> in it (1880s) I feel like quiche, in comparison, isn’t too much of a stretch. the other thing is that my partner slash history consultant listened to the instrumental that I wrote for this section and was like “cool 16th century vibes” so ??? fuck knows what time period we’re in. at least this lackadaisical approach to “medieval” fantasy is entirely on brand for the Witcher franchise so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Geralt knocks on Jaskier’s door early Friday morning, it’s like there’s an entirely different person standing before him. It ought not to be possible for so much to change in a week but when Jaskier answers the door all flushed and smiling, he is noticeably healthier and heavier and he’s near-vibrating with energy as they leave for Novigrad. </p>
<p>Jaskier looks well-groomed as well. Geralt isn’t very observant when it comes to people’s appearances because, for the most part, it <em>doesn’t matter</em>, but he hadn’t realised just how scraggly Jaskier’s beard had been until he’d shaved, or how long his hair had grown until it had been trimmed behind his ears. His clothing is still showing signs of wear, but Jaskier, at least, looks well taken care of. There is still a heaviness to his shoulders and stress evident in his features, but he looks a world better than he did the last time they crossed paths, and for that Geralt is grateful. </p>
<p>Jaskier is chattering away as they depart; declining Geralt’s offer to ride Roach in favour of walking alongside the mare so that he can strum his lute.</p>
<p>“I’m working on a new song,” he explains. “A homage to Georgie’s quiche. You know, a ‘<em>I never knew an egg could be so egg-citing’ </em>kind of thing.”</p>
<p>Geralt has no idea if Jaskier is being serious about this new composition but it gives him the opening he’s been after to ask Jaskier about his relationship with the Arbors and so he asks – as casually as he’s able – if Jaskier is indeed referring to one Georgia Arbor. </p>
<p>“Yes, yes, the alchemist. Professor Arbor invited me round for Sunday tea to ‘discuss our progress regarding scholarships’. He wants to meet every week to help ‘keep momentum’ –” Jaskier says, rolling his eyes at the sentiment. </p>
<p>Geralt wonders if Jaskier sees through Arbor’s ruse or whether the bard is simply amused at the educator’s dedication to the cause. Either way, there’s a smile on his face as he continues – </p>
<p>“– and so Georgie put on this whole spread while we talked. It was amazing. I’ve never known such a good cook in my life. Although, now I think about it, baking <em>is</em> a kind of alchemy, isn’t it? It’s certainly magic to me. Anyway, she made an absolutely divine quiche to take home with me and seeing as I am unable to see the Arbors this week – owing to my quite frankly <em>gorgeous</em> lover whisking me away for a romantic tour across exotic lands –”</p>
<p>Geralt snorts at the idea of Novigrad, even for a moment, being considered a ‘romantic’ destination. </p>
<p>“– I thought I might thank her by song instead. Hence, the <em>Quiche Pastiche</em>. So tell me, how’s this –?”</p>
<p>And then Jaskier demonstrates such linguistic acrobatics that Geralt can’t help but be impressed. </p>
<p>Geralt cocks his head in fond amusement after the third egg-inspired pun. “It’s a fine song,” he states, and then tries to keep a straight face when he adds, “I’m sure she’ll be very <em>egg-cited</em> to hear it.”</p>
<p>Geralt watches with a smirk as Jaskier trips over his own feet in his effort to gape at Geralt. “You made a joke,” he accuses. “<em>You</em> made a <em>joke</em>.”</p>
<p>Geralt raises an eyebrow as if to say “who, me?” and continues to trot Roach down the road to the sound of Jaskier’s startled chortling. </p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Novigrad is <em>huge</em>. Jaskier stares in awe as they begin to stroll through entire villages that apparently constitute suburbs before crossing over the river and into a walled city that just keeps going. He thought Oxenfurt was big, but Novigrad…? It’s <em>huge</em>. </p>
<p>When they cross the bridge, Jaskier hops down from Roach so that he can walk once more beside Geralt and better experience the bustle of the city. There are pushy sellers, raggedy beggars, and very cold looking prostitutes on every corner. The stench of fish guts and ale fills the air and mud squelches unpleasantly beneath their feet. Even the buildings conspire to tower so tall that they blot out the late afternoon sun. All in all, Novigrad ought to be hideous but Jaskier is so excited to be here – with his lover, on the road, and far away from his problems in Oxenfurt – that all the chaos just seems <em>romantic </em>instead. Oh! He already has an idea for a new song. <em>Finding the heart in a heartless city</em>, <em>wandering the streets in hope of a sweet?</em> No, that’s terrible. <em>In hope of</em> <em><span class="u">my</span> sweet? </em>Better. Unless – </p>
<p>Geralt has enough mind to steer him out the way of a goods cart trundling past them. “No composing.”</p>
<p>Jaskier huffs a laugh as the rhythm of the Path comes back to him. “I thought you said I could compose as long as it was safe! I <em>distinctly</em> remember the compromise we struck because we were in the endless swamps of south Velen and you were fighting that hideous –”</p>
<p>“Water Hag.”</p>
<p>“Yes, and you said –”</p>
<p>“No composing until it’s safe. It’s not safe,” he clarifies. And as if to prove his point, there is a loud smash from their right-hand side and then glass skittering under their feet from where a local drunkard has apparently taken issue with a signpost. </p>
<p>“Right,” Jaskier says, mentally tucking that composition away to work on later. “Point made. Eyes on the road. Can do. How much further is our inn, anyway?”</p>
<p>“Not far,” Geralt murmurs, reaching out to comfort Roach as the streets become steadily more populated. “We’re heading to Hierarch Square. Just up ahead.”</p>
<p>Jaskier squints through the throng of people until he can make out a break in the buildings and a gathering of market stalls that could, optimistically, be called a market square. When they approach, he notices that there appears to be a stage erected in one corner where various kinds of circus acts are being performed. It’s <em>fascinating</em>. But Jaskier barely has time to gawk at the sword swallower before Geralt is leading them round the corner and into some mangy-looking stables.</p>
<p>Jaskier blinks in surprise and turns around in a rapid circle, trying to locate this mysterious inn.</p>
<p>“We passed it,” Geralt grunts, seemingly reading his mind. “Somewhere between the archer and the fire breather.”</p>
<p>Jaskier begins to protest but Geralt just laughs as he untacks Roach and it’s such a hallowed sound and such a beautiful sight that Jaskier’s protestations die in his throat. Their carefree summer in Beauclair had felt like a lifetime ago while he was at Oxenfurt but now they are back on the road, exploring a new and exciting city, and Geralt is making those same dry (but very fond) remarks about Jaskier’s “penchant for daydreaming” – it feels like they never parted ways at all. </p>
<p>Jaskier realises, quite abruptly, that he would quite happily spend the rest of his life on the road with Geralt. </p>
<p>He must stare at his lover a little too long in wonder because Geralt pauses in his movements to blink at Jaskier in confusion. “What?” he grunts.</p>
<p>Jaskier smiles, letting the affection well in his chest and broadcast in his features in a way that he was always afraid to show before. He is rewarded by Geralt’s softened gaze and cautious smile that only makes Jaskier’s heart pound more fervently in his chest. </p>
<p>Jaskier leans in to brush a kiss against his Witcher’s cheek under the guise of unlatching his knapsack from the saddlebags. “I love travelling with you,” he murmurs under the sounds of the city around them. </p>
<p>Jaskier watches with a small smile as Geralt blinks owlishly at him in humbled surprise before Jaskier retreats, and the facade (along with the city noise) falls back around them. </p>
<p>“I don’t know why,” Geralt mutters with a teasing smile as he assists Jaskier in unloading Roach, “seeing as you miss almost everything that there is to see.”</p>
<p>Jaskier raises his hands and gestures to the rundown stable around them as if to indicate that there is absolutely nothing to see here.</p>
<p>Geralt rolls his eyes as he continues untacking Roach. “Behind those cheap tricks in the main square was the most historical building in the city.”</p>
<p>Jaskier raises an eyebrow, not because he doesn’t believe Geralt but because he knows that if he plays ignorant then Geralt will be goaded into divulging his knowledge, and Jaskier learned very early on that a nerdy Geralt is a happy Geralt.</p>
<p>It works like a trick. Geralt tilts his head in the direction of the market square and gives an impromptu lecture on the history of the belltower while he continues caring for Roach. He tells Jaskier how the belltower was originally constructed as city gates during the Conjunction, and later how the barracks were converted into housing and merchants stalls, and then he explains the significance of the crest of arms midway up the tower… and so on and so forth, all interspersed, of course, with cutting remarks about how Jaskier managed to miss all of this. </p>
<p>It is, admittedly, fascinating, but Jaskier has a role to play here and exclaims, “Why on earth would I be looking at the <em>architecture</em> when there is a man, quite literally, <em>swallowing swords </em>in the middle of the town square?”</p>
<p>Geralt shakes his head with a sigh. “Those hack performers are a dime a dozen.”</p>
<p>“I feel like there’s an obvious joke here about you not getting your sword swallowed if you’re so disinterested in the act, but luckily for you I’m too polite to make it.”</p>
<p>Geralt raises his eyebrow as he shoulders their bags and his swords before finally handing Roach over to the stablehand with a handful of coin. “Is that so?” he asks Jaskier. “Good thing you’re so polite, otherwise I would have to draw a conclusion about your apparent disinterest in history and the inaccuracy of your repertoire  –”</p>
<p>Jaskier gasps, affronted, as he attempts to follow Geralt’s eager stride towards the inn.</p>
<p>“– but seeing as we’re too <em>polite</em> to make such statements, I shall have to resist the temptation.”</p>
<p>Geralt smirks victoriously at Jaskier before he turns to make his way up the stairs from the square and Jaskier stares, dumbfounded, as he trails after him. Geralt is acting so much more carefree than before. Sure, Geralt would occasionally tease him like this, but all insults used to be followed by a wary gaze, as if Jaskier would scarper at the first graze to his ego. Now, Geralt’s just outright dragging him in the middle of the street and Jaskier is <em>living</em> for it. </p>
<p>Perhaps, since their earnest discussion, Geralt has realised that he doesn’t need to worry about Jaskier disappearing on him anymore. Perhaps he is learning that he can be his true self around Jaskier, just as Jaskier is learning in return. Perhaps when they agreed to being “more” this is actually what they were agreeing to – because relationships aren’t just built from trust and truths and intimacies, Jaskier realises, but they’re born from lowering your defences too. You’re not just building; you’re dismantling too. Letting someone else through the gate. </p>
<p>This revelation startles Jaskier for a minute, and it takes Geralt frowning down at him from the top of the stone steps to realise that he’s gotten lost in his own thoughts again.</p>
<p>Geralt tilts his head, inquiring as to Jaskier’s mind without having to ask, and Jaskier loves that he is learning to translate all of Geralt’s silent little gestures. </p>
<p>Jaskier shakes his head and jogs up the exterior staircase towards the entrance to the inn. “Just thinking about architecture,” he jests with a patronising pat on Geralt’s chest. “Fascinating stuff, as you say.”</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>The Kingfisher is as deserted as it always is before sundown – the wooden benches and tables are scattered with a few soldiers and drunken layabouts as the bardic quartet play the same fucking tune that they always play up on the stage. Geralt grunts and shoulders the saddlebags further upon his shoulders as he makes his way to the bar with Jaskier in his shadow.</p>
<p>Geralt nods his greeting to Olivier and the barkeep presents him with the key – “Best room in the house, Witcher, just as you requested. Shall I call for a bath or are you about the town this fine afternoon?”</p>
<p>“Oh, I would <em>kill</em> for a bath,” Jaskier groans beside him. “Not that I don’t love Roach – because I do – but there is a particular… how do I put this delicately? A certain <em>scent</em> – ”</p>
<p>“Don’t,” Geralt warns, with fond amusement twitching at his lips, before he turns back to Olivier with a stoic face. “Save your water. We’ll go to the bathhouse.”</p>
<p>“Very well, Witcher. All yours then,” Olivier says with a grin, thankfully not commenting on the peculiarity of Geralt having company. “The suite at the top of the stairs. Ring the bell if you need anything.”</p>
<p>Geralt nods and pockets the key before indicating to Jaskier that he should follow. Jaskier, however, is too busy gaping and nearly trips over his own feet in his haste to follow. He only catches up when Geralt starts on the stairs – </p>
<p>“Did that very nice gentleman imply that we’re staying in a <em>suite</em>? A <em>suite</em>, Geralt?”</p>
<p>Geralt ducks his head with a smile, feeling rather smitten that he knows Jaskier so well. He asked for the nicest room at the Kingfisher because as insignificant as these things are to him, he knows that they mean a great deal to his bard. However. He has no idea what Olivier considers to be a good room and doesn’t want Jaskier getting his hopes up for a Beauclair-style suite when, knowing Novigrad, the suite could be little more than a straw mattress and a broken stool. </p>
<p>“Are you trying to <em>seduce</em> me, Geralt?” Jaskier says in a low and flirtatious voice. “Because given that you once bedded me on the dusty ground of a vineyard only several feet away from a beastly corpse, I can assure you that a suite, although lovely, is not a prerequisite to –” </p>
<p>Geralt turns around when he reaches the landing and thankfully Jaskier’s rambling falls silent at his raised eyebrow. “I know it’s not ‘necessary,’” he states. “But it’s… nice,” he concludes uneasily with a wave of his hand. “You deserve <em>nice</em>.”</p>
<p>Geralt watches with fondness as Jaskier cycles through several emotions – each writ clearly on his face – before settling into soft eyes and a shy smile that makes the Witcher feel just as vulnerable in return. </p>
<p>“You didn’t have to do this,” Jaskier murmurs, reaching out to squeeze Geralt’s hand in the deserted hallway. </p>
<p>“I wanted to,” Geralt returns, emphatically enough for Jaskier to know that the gesture is not born from pity (as he knows the bard likely suspects) but from his own selfish desire to see his bard happy.</p>
<p>Jaskier holds his gaze and Geralt sees his own affection reflected back at him. The depth and openness of his expression fills him with warmth; pleased to see none of the guardedness that has resided there over the last few months. There is an openness between them now that Geralt is continually thankful for. </p>
<p>Geralt flickers his eyes down the corridor and when he finds it still deserted, tugs Jaskier by the hand until he can press their lips together. </p>
<p>Geralt intends for it to be a chaste kiss but the way that Jaskier moans into the soft brush of lips has them dropping their belongings in a cacophony of sound just so that they can grasp at the other. Geralt can’t find it within himself to care for the disturbance as Jaskier pulls him closer and tangles his hands in Geralt’s hair until he’s groaning in return, returning the kiss with the same urgency as they twist and mould around each other. They’ve barely touched since they were reunited in Oxenfurt, both too eager to be on the road, but now they are <em>here</em>, and Jaskier’s kissing him like <em>that</em>, and the scent of his lust fills the air… </p>
<p>Geralt groans and tears himself away only so he can grab Jaskier by his open doublet and haul him up the next flight of stairs. Jaskier scrambles for his belongings and before long they are both stumbling up the stairs – prying open clothes and kissing exposed skin – until they fall through the door to their room.</p>
<p>“Fuck me,” Jaskier gasps against his lips, frantically casting his eyes around the room. “This really is a fucking <em>suite</em>.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0046"><h2>46. Chapter 46</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>cw: discomfort during sex, implied vaginal atrophy (detailed warning at end of chapter)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The room at the Kingfisher is, admittedly, nicer than Geralt was expecting. Not that he gets to see much of it before Jaskier starts kissing him again, pressing him against the nearest cabinet until his soft package is rubbing against Geralt’s increasingly hard one. Geralt groans and gives into their building passion, picking Jaskier up in his arms with the intent to find the bed, only to lose patience shortly afterwards and tumble to the floor instead. </p><p>Jaskier moans into his mouth and grabs him by the shirt, tugging him further into the drawing room until they’re desperately rutting on soft furs spread across the hard wooden floor.</p><p>Geralt groans into his neck, so overcome with desire that he cannot even form the words to ask what Jaskier wants. It’s been so long that he’s desperate for his touch and doesn’t really care for the manner. He lets Jaskier take the lead; the bard pushing past their rumpled clothing to extract Geralt from his breeches. </p><p>Geralt sighs, stuttering into the intimate touch and indulging in a few passes of Jaskier’s hand before the desire to touch in return surpasses the immediate pleasure of the act. He scrambles for Jaskier’s trousers, palming his package with enough force that he knows Jaskier can feel it on the other side.</p><p>Jaskier bucks into the movement until he must grow frustrated with the barrier and breaks their continual kiss to pull down his breeches fully. Geralt aids in his endeavour, pushing aside the soft package to stroke the member beneath and then moving further south to caress the folds that greet him.</p><p>Jaskier whines and reaches up to tangle his fingers in Geralt’s hair, pulling him down for a kiss so filthy that even a professional would be proud of it. “Inside me, please,” he begs, and the grinding of his front entrance against Geralt’s knuckles leaves no doubt as to which entrance he refers.</p><p>Geralt is always nervous of fucking him like this, well aware that it might leave Jaskier feeling unsettled afterwards, but, <em>fuck</em>, he cannot resist giving his little lark anything that he wants and the thought of sliding into that wet and welcoming heat makes him growl against Jaskier’s lips with desire. </p><p>He doesn’t think twice about it, removing his knuckles from where they had been teasing Jaskier’s entrance, and replacing it with his cock instead. He’s just pressing in – just feeling that glorious tight hot pressure embrace the tip of his cock – when the sour scent of distress hits the air – </p><p>Jaskier’s breath hitches and he flinches away, wincing and cursing as he does so. </p><p>Geralt withdraws instantly, falling back on his heels and reaching to cup Jaskier’s face – </p><p>“I’m fine,” Jaskier dismisses, with a shaky breath and a shaky smile. “I’m fine. Just –”</p><p>There’s a guiding hand on the back of Geralt’s head and soon he’s being encouraged to taste just how ‘fine’ Jaskier really is. Jaskier certainly <em>seems</em> alright; the sour scent quickly dissipates to be replaced by the familiar musk of lust. Jaskier sighs and moans into his ministrations until he’s encouraging Geralt’s tongue to fuck his entrance just as his determinedly as his cock would have done.</p><p>Eventually Jaskier’s pleasure is potent enough to assuage Geralt’s fears and soon Jaskier is clawing at his scalp and screaming his pleasure to anyone that will listen. Jaskier has barely climaxed before he is urging Geralt to kiss him and then encouraging him further until Geralt’s member is sliding into the hot warmth of Jaskier’s mouth. It doesn’t take Geralt long to peak, what with the taste of Jaskier on his tongue, and the sinful sounds being moaned beneath him.</p><p>He clutches at Jaskier afterwards, both still entangled on the bear fur rug as they stare up at the wooden beamed ceiling, catching their breath. Geralt tilts his head to see two benches and a table surrounded by multiple cabinets and bookcases – not to mention the plush king-size bed on the other side of the divide – all of which would have been a darn sight more comfortable than fucking on the floor.</p><p>Jaskier seems to come to the same conclusion, barking out a laugh as he pulls up his trousers and adjusts the sewn-in package from where Geralt had knocked it aside. Geralt might have ripped a few stitches while they were hurriedly pushing aside layers but judging by Jaskier’s ageing doublet they were overdue a visit to the tailor’s anyway. </p><p>Geralt tucks himself back into his own trousers and then tugs at Jaskier’s sleeve until the bard collapses – smiling and satisfied – across his chest. Geralt breathes a sigh at the comforting warmth and familiar scent of his bard and is content to lie here, lazily caressing his lover in the late afternoon sunshine, while the sounds of the city filter through the diamond paned windows from three floors below. He doesn’t know how much time passes in this hazy afterglow until he hears Jaskier’s heart tick up and anxious fingers begin tapping at his chest.</p><p>He glances down at Jaskier with a frown, making sure the bard is encircled in his arms while he struggles to say whatever it is that he’s struggling to say.</p><p>“It’s not, uh…” Jaskier begins, “What happened. It’s not…”</p><p>With a heavy weight of guilt in his stomach, Geralt remembers what had happened before he’d let himself become reabsorbed in their carnal activities. It’s not often that they encounter obstacles in their intimacies now, being that they know each other so well, but this time they <em>did</em>, and it worries Geralt that he doesn’t even know what triggered Jaskier’s pained reaction. He tightens his arms around Jaskier and presses a kiss into his hair as Jaskier’s fingers continue to tap and tap against his chest.</p><p>There was a time in their relationship when they wouldn’t have even discussed what happened, and Geralt certainly doesn’t want to presume enough to <em>ask</em>, but he holds on tight and hopes that Jaskier will feel comfortable enough to tell him when he is ready. They have made great progress, after all, in their attempts at communication, and Geralt can only hope that his efforts have been <em>enough</em>.</p><p>Eventually, Jaskier’s fidgeting comes to a rest, and he says, “I still like being pleasured that way… as you know,” he adds with a coy smile.</p><p>Geralt catches Jaskier’s flirtatious gaze and smirks in response, licking his lips absently as he remembers the taste of Jaskier’s pleasure on tongue. </p><p>Jaskier chuckles softly and returns his head to Geralt’s chest. “It’s just… been a while,” he admits. “Barely even had time with Old Faithful lately. And Arbor mentioned that my hart root blend could cause, uh, dryness. So that might be it? I don’t know. But I guess I just need some warming up now? Until we start doing this more often, that is… not that I’m expecting it to be more often! What I meant to say is that there’s this cream that Arbor mentioned that he says works wonders so... Sorry. I, uh –”</p><p>Geralt cringes, feeling like the Continent’s biggest fool for not putting two and two together. Aside from the possible side effects of the tea is the rather obvious fact that Jaskier would have been having less sex than usual. He’s been <em>exhausted</em>. When would he have even found the time to engage in his usual affairs? Geralt curses under his breath, and pulls Jaskier closer to him, infuriated that he let himself get caught up in the moment and didn’t think to test the waters first. “Fuck. Sorry. I should have prepared you –”</p><p>“Oh, no! Don’t apologise! I didn’t realise either,” Jaskier says, bestowing Geralt a comforting smile from his position against his chest. “I used to be able to take you, no problem. But, uh, yes. It’s been a while for me. So...” </p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt muses, taking a moment to gather his thoughts before admitting that the same was true for him as well. </p><p>Jaskier’s mouth opens ever so slightly; his eyebrow twitching with intrigue.</p><p>Geralt shrugs. If he was not permitted to apologise, then he wanted to make a confession in exchange. “I have not laid with anyone since our parting. I had opportunities…” he muses, recalling the many brothels that he passed enroute, and Yennefer’s overt invitation in Gelibol, and Eskel lounging in front of the fire one night, languidly stroking his cock in a manner that usually led to a shared hand, “but none of them were as enticing as the thought of you.”</p><p>“Oh,” Jaskier says, quiet and stunned, his hand still clutched in Geralt’s shirt. There’s a delightful tinge of pink on his cheeks that Geralt hopes arises from flattery and not embarrassment. “So, uh, when you asked me to –?” he asks, with a twirl of his hand that is likely meant to encapsulate something meaningful. “That’s not an act you frequently engage in?”</p><p>Geralt frowns, attempting to recall what it is he asked for and what it is that Jaskier can’t say, and then remembers (with an expression just as bashful as Jaskier’s) what exactly that was. “Hmm. No. I asked a courtesan to take me that way several months ago,” Geralt murmurs, thinking back to those foreign fingers around his rim and the press of a stranger into somewhere most private. “Before that… it had been years. Decades, even.”</p><p>Jaskier hums and tilts his head on Geralt’s chest until he can likely hear the slow beating of his heart. “We were sleeping together several months ago,” he states – an observation, rather than an accusation.</p><p>Geralt considers his words for a moment, smoothing his hand over Jaskier’s hair while he contemplates his feelings on the matter and how to aptly express them. “It was the only time I sought professional touch since I have known you,” he begins, surprised at its accuracy. His celibacy had not been a conscious decision by any means, just an unintended consequence of meeting Jaskier and how all other opportunities seemed to pale in comparison. “I saw that you had a phallus with you in Toussaint and I regretted that I did not ask you about it. I… had a desire, and needed it sated,” he swallows uneasily, still unused to expressing such intimate desires so openly. “I wanted to make certain of my enjoyment and so I asked him to take me… imagining that he were you,” he admits into the safety of Jaskier’s hair, still reeling from the vulnerability that such honesty provokes. </p><p>Jaskier smiles at him, soft and sweet, his unmarred skin glowing divinely in the evening sunshine against the muffled backdrop of the city. The sight bathes Geralt in a peace so profound that he can feel his fears dissipate into the ether. </p><p>“I am certain now,” Geralt sighs, cupping Jaskier’s cheek in his palm. “And I have no desire to lay with anyone else.”</p><p>Jaskier turns his head, kissing the inside of his palm so delicately that it makes even a beast like him seem cherished. Jaskier contemplates this only briefly before turning his head again to look Geralt in the eye. “Nor I,” he murmurs, holding his gaze until Geralt is assured in his sincerity. </p><p>Geralt keeps his gaze as his heart pounds louder and louder until it blocks out the city sounds and everything else around them, until it’s just <em>Jaskier</em>, and that vulnerable-yet-welcoming look in his eyes. He hadn’t expected the same declaration in return. He hadn’t dared to hope that Jaskier would feel the same way.</p><p>“I haven’t been chaste, that’s for certain,” Jaskier admits, ducking his head with a laugh. “But time is not the only thing keeping me from other lovers. You have my <em>heart</em>, Geralt, and I don’t desire anyone but you.”</p><p>Geralt makes a strangled noise at this unexpected declaration and surges forward to claim Jaskier’s lips in a kiss, pouring his love and his gratitude and his passion into his bard the only way he knows how. Jaskier returns the kiss just as ardently, moaning into the kiss and clutching at Geralt’s shirt while Geralt’s own fingers still cradle his head, unwilling to let him go. Even when they part for breath, he cannot resist leaving kiss after kiss on his lips, so enamoured with his bard as he is. </p><p>Jaskier starts laughing, his nimble fingers tapping at Geralt’s chin. “I assume – from that response – that you feel much the same way?”</p><p>Geralt nods against his gentle hold and kisses him once again – overjoyed that this is something he can do now without worrying about misconstrued meanings or unwanted affection. They have likely always been a little too affectionate for casual lovers but until Jaskier had declared his desires so candidly, Geralt didn’t want to presume anything. Now he knows he has Jaskier’s heart, Geralt will do everything in his power to take care of it. </p><p>“I am sorry,” he murmurs against Jaskier’s lips. “That I hurt you in my haste just now. It was unthinking. I won’t do so again.”</p><p>“It’s okay –” Jaskier begins to say, but Geralt cuts him off with a curt shake of his head. He doesn’t want Jaskier to feel uncomfortable in his presence or in his bed for even a second. It may have been a mistake, but he wants to make sure that there won’t be another.</p><p>“No. No, it’s not. I endeavour to do better.”</p><p>Jaskier’s smile is slow and sentimental and so warm that Geralt wishes to commit it to memory so that he might recall it on those long winter nights when they are parted. They clutch at each other and this time when they kiss it is full of a different kind of passion – steady, and unhurried – as if they’re both content to see where this path takes them.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>detailed cw: Geralt and Jaskier attempt vaginal sex. Geralt tries to enter Jaskier without preparation and it is painful for him. Geralt withdraws and they seek pleasure elsewhere. Afterwards, they discuss the discomfort and Jaskier reassures Geralt that he does still enjoy being pleasured that way but now needs some preparation. If you want to avoid both the discomfort and the discussion then you can rejoin us at the very characteristic “hmm” from Geralt (the first one). Note that the discomfort is from an outsider’s POV and thus isn’t described in detail but if you’re at all worried about it, please do skip over it!</p><p>in other news: I posted a fluffy and very tropey one shot this week called <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29904834">Familiar</a> if you want to check it out</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0047"><h2>47. Chapter 47</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>less of a content warning and more of a head's up. we're in Novigrad to find out more about this mysterious Aretuza ritual. that means that there's gonna be mentions of this medieval-fantasy-style gender affirming surgery from here on out. just like we did with Jaskier's previous major decisions, we're gonna keep some narrative distance while he mulls things over back in Oxenfurt, but while we're in Novigrad finding out more about it, there are going to be some discussions about it and some initial thoughts/feelings/swearing from Jaskier. if you need to know more about what's going to happen moving forward, I've added more details to the <a href="https://docs.google.com/document/d/1dGMfq1CYApIhEQUDD0Yams_PInC1g5oIpd0aBlPgjFs/edit?usp=sharing">timeline document</a>.</p>
<p>now for an actual cw: dysphoria, anxiety (unrelated to the above)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jaskier bathes in the late afternoon sun, content to lie here in crumpled clothing, listening to the slow beating of Geralt’s heart beneath him and the sounds of the city far below. </p>
<p>Jaskier dozes, slipping in and out of consciousness, and perhaps Geralt does too but every time Jaskier reaches for a lazy caress, he finds it returned in kind and is able to slip back into a peaceful doze. </p>
<p>“This is what I’ve been dreaming of,” Jaskier murmurs when he wakes once more, nuzzling into Geralt’s neck, rough with stubble but warm to the touch. “You have no idea how many nights I laid awake trying to remember how it felt to be in your arms.” </p>
<p>Geralt hums an agreement beneath him and the sound rumbles in his chest, deep and moving. </p>
<p>Jaskier doesn’t normally allow himself to speak such romantic notions – afraid to push Geralt away with his eagerness or youthful naivety – but now he knows that Geralt feels the same way, he feels no such apprehension. For the first time in their acquaintance, Jaskier feels truly grounded. The voicing of their intentions has dispelled any illusions of temporality – Geralt <em>will</em> return to him, and this stability eases the anxieties that Jaskier has harboured from the beginning of their entanglement. He still doesn’t fully understand what Geralt sees in him but he can accept that – for whatever reason – Geralt is just as taken with him, as he is with Geralt. </p>
<p>It seems too good to be true, but while they lie here with their problems far, far away, Jaskier can close his eyes and loiter in this peaceful moment, committing the sensation to memory for when the days are not so easy to pass.</p>
<p>When the sun sets, it takes the warmth with it, and Jaskier shivers only once in Geralt’s arms before his chivalrous lover insists on breaking their embrace to light the fire. Jaskier groans in protest and successfully pulls Geralt back for a kiss, and then another, before the Witcher finally succeeds in pulling away.</p>
<p>“We should go to the bathhouse,” Geralt muses, as he kneels before the fireplace and starts stacking wood. “We can bank the fire. Keep the room warm for when we return.”</p>
<p>The bathhouse. Right. Jaskier tries to control his anxiety because Geralt is obviously looking forward to a good long soak and Jaskier <em>had</em> been the one to request a bath after all. It’s just that after that little sexual blunder of theirs, Jaskier has become <em>very</em> aware of his own body and the thought of striping naked and staring at it in the bathtub – even a <em>private</em> bathtub – scrapes in his mind like nails on chalkboards. </p>
<p>Jaskier also has no idea what to expect from Novigrad baths. Oxenfurt has a large pool for public bathing but also water chutes and smaller tubs that Jaskier makes use of before the other students arise. Toussaint’s Public Baths had gorgeous private rooms that Jaskier (and occasionally Geralt) made use of. But he doesn’t know what to expect from Novigrad. He might be able to cope with his own discomfort if there aren’t strangers staring at him too. But he likely won’t know until he <em>gets</em> there, at which point it would be too late to retreat and – </p>
<p>“You’re anxious,” Geralt states, leaning against the lit fireplace with folded arms.</p>
<p>Geralt probably didn’t mean it to sound so accusatory – and Jaskier <em>knows</em> that he doesn’t mean anything by that harsh tone – but it tugs at Jaskier’s anxiety regardless.</p>
<p>“Sorry,” Geralt says with a wince, dropping his arms and relaxing his stance. “It’s just… the scent. Makes me on edge.” He steps away from the fire and lowers himself onto one of the benches, and this time when he speaks, it’s a lot softer, and a lot more <em>Geralt</em>. “What is it?” he asks.</p>
<p>Jaskier sighs and tentatively rises from the bear rug, stretching and sniffling, before he shuffles towards Geralt. </p>
<p>He sits before the bench and rests his head against Geralt’s thigh, breathing in his comforting scent, and marvelling at how fast the anxiety recedes as soon as he is wrapped around Geralt’s warmth once again. Geralt’s hand cautiously cups his head and Jaskier sighs, relaxing further into the touch. The light from the fire and the sunset through the window cast the entire room in a warm orange glow, and it makes the whole suite feel strangely ethereal. He feels cocooned. Safe. </p>
<p>“The bathhouse…” Jaskier murmurs. “I don’t know if I can do it today.”</p>
<p>Geralt hums in understanding and his hand starts threading through Jaskier’s hair, soothing him even further. </p>
<p>“I don’t want to look at my body right now,” Jaskier explains. “It’s not…” he trails off, wondering how to describe this to anyone but himself. “Hart root has changed some things, but not others. It’s… jarring.”</p>
<p>“You don’t like your body?” Geralt hazards. </p>
<p>“It’s not that I don’t <em>like</em> it,” Jaskier explains. “I mean, <em>please</em>, have you <em>seen</em> me? I’m gorgeous.”</p>
<p>Geralt snorts his amusement but his comforting gestures do not cease.</p>
<p>Jaskier sighs and tries to explain, “It’s more like… it’s not what I’m expecting? I look in the mirror when I’m dressed like this and it feels <em>right</em> – I feel <em>good</em> – but when I’m naked, and I look down, and there’s these things –” he says, waving a frustrated hands at his chest, “and then there’s an absence of other certain <em>things</em> –” another wave towards his crotch, “and then everything’s just –” this time he just gestures vaguely at his entire body and hopes that Geralt understands the dissonance that he’s trying his best to describe.</p>
<p>“It’s hard to see, sometimes. I have to be in the right headspace for it. And I’m not. So… Why don’t you take yourself to the baths and have a nice long soak? Enjoy the respite from my ramblings while I work on my masterpiece, and then reconvene for supper.”</p>
<p>Geralt hums in contemplation before he says, “I wouldn’t call the <em>Quiche Pastiche</em> a masterpiece.”</p>
<p>Jaskier snorts. “That’s what you think, you uncultured swine.”</p>
<p>Geralt laughs again, and it’s just as lovely as the sweet kiss that he presses into his hairline afterwards. “I’ll consider it.”</p>
<p>For a moment, they just sit there listening to the seller’s carts being towed away from the market and the increased footfall in the tavern below, until Geralt reaches for the red wine atop the table and pours them both a cup. He passes Jaskier the intricately carved wooden goblet and takes a sip from his own cup before he clears his throat, and says, “I learned something recently that you might be interested in.”</p>
<p>“Oh?” Jaskier asks, tilting his head until he can look Geralt in the eye, trying to gauge his tone only to find that his expression is just as blank – distant, almost. Jaskier looks down at the wine with sudden scepticism. “Do I need to be drunk for this conversation?” </p>
<p>Geralt huffs a laugh. “I thought you might be thirsty after our activities.”</p>
<p>Jaskier breathes a subtle sigh of relief and rests his head back against Geralt’s knee as he takes an indulgent swig of what is, actually, quite a nice wine.</p>
<p>“Although,” Geralt adds, and Jaskier glares from over the rim of his goblet, daring him to finish that sentence.</p>
<p>Geralt huffs and shakes his head, finishing his thought anyway. “You certainly might need a drink or two after.”</p>
<p>Jaskier frowns, starting to get seriously worried when he sees Geralt twirl the stem of his goblet in his hands. Geralt <em>never</em> fidgets. Jaskier straightens and very purposefully places his glass down on the floor, rubbing his suddenly-sweaty hands down the front of his trousers before taking a deep breath and turning back to Geralt so he can say whatever he needs to say. </p>
<p>“I met a mage in Geilbol,” Geralt states, staring down at his wine. “Her name was Yennefer of Vengerburg. She knew who you were… or rather,” he says, with a telling twitch of his jaw, “she knew who you were through my mind.”</p>
<p>Jaskier bites his lip to contain his amusement at Geralt’s blatant distaste of magic – at the narrowed eyes and clenched jaw and sharper tone – all these little details that he would have missed before he knew Geralt so well. </p>
<p>“Yennefer said she knew someone like you. Someone who wanted more transformation than hart root could provide. She said that Aretuza could provide such changes – though, I don’t know at what cost, or the limitations of such magic.”</p>
<p>Jaskier straightens further, suddenly <em>very</em> interested in this conversation, because if Geralt is implying what he thinks he’s implying... “Wait, wait, wait. What are you saying? That there is some sort of magic that can…?” he waves his hand helplessly across his body again, over all the valleys and mountains that he wishes he could surpass. </p>
<p>Geralt locks eyes with Jaskier and nods. “Yes. Magic that provides permanent physical changes.”</p>
<p>Jaskier stops breathing. He’s pretty sure he stops breathing. </p>
<p>“Jaskier?” Geralt asks with a frown, reaching out to brace his hands on Jaskier’s shoulders.</p>
<p>“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay…” he says, placing his arms over Geralt’s, though he’s really not sure if he’s okay in the slightest. That is a lot of information to <em>process</em>. Magic. The ability to <em>change</em>. Holy <em>shit</em>. </p>
<p>Geralt squeezes his shoulders. “As I said, I don’t know how much they can do, or what they would ask for in exchange. But if this is something you are interested in then we can find out more. Yennefer gave me the name of someone who has visited Aretuza for this service and is very willing to discuss it with you. Her name is Betilda. She lives on the Bridge, just over that rise,” he says, pointing somewhere out the window. </p>
<p>Jaskier turns his head towards the window and then back to Geralt, blinking dumbly at him as he tries to process that whole cartload of information. Geralt – once again – researching something on Jaskier’s behalf. Geralt having written to this woman to ask for advice. Oh, how he loves this good, sweet man. <em>Permanent physical changes</em> – </p>
<p>“We don’t have go,” Geralt says with a shrug, leaning back to give Jaskier his space. “Magic is dangerous. You might not want to –”</p>
<p>“I want to go,” Jaskier interrupts, snatching his wine goblet from the floor because Geralt was right in saying that this life-altering conversation requires a drink afterwards. Jaskier doesn’t know <em>what</em> he wants right now but he definitely wants answers. He takes a big drink, a big breath, and then takes a moment to process. </p>
<p>Jaskier hadn’t considered magic before. He knows that some people alter their bodies by the blade, whether it be for culture, or practicality, or to cure a bodily dissonance like his. Jaskier has certainly considered such options in the past and may have even drunkenly asked around the Rosebud for a surgeon one time. But there is no magic involved in these surgeries. You can hire a healer to care for you and you can drink potions to numb the pain but given the cleanliness of some of these places there is still a great deal of risk involved. A physical transformation involving magic would undoubtedly be safer but Jaskier cannot even imagine the vast amount of power needed for such a thing. </p>
<p>It sounds, in one word, <em>expensive</em>. But Jaskier supposes that there’s no harm in finding out the details. If he cannot personally take advantage of the services at Aretuza then at least there are others at the Rosebud who could benefit from such information. </p>
<p>He should meet this Betilda. And ask all the questions that he can think to ask.</p>
<p>“Yes,” he confirms, cementing his decision. “I want to go.”</p>
<p>Geralt nods with head, with a small smile lining his lips. He looks <em>proud</em>. “Okay. Then we shall go.”</p>
<p>Jaskier returns the smile, warmth and anticipation building in his chest as he stares at the man who has brought so much joy and opportunity into his life. He is still reeling from this revelation but Geralt, at least, is a constant.</p>
<p>That is, until the Witcher abruptly stands and heads for the door.</p>
<p>“Wait! Geralt! Where are you going?” Jaskier yelps, scrambling to his feet, likely spilling some wine in the process. “I didn’t mean <em>now</em>!” </p>
<p>Geralt shakes his head with a huff of laughter before he diverts his path at the last moment, not opening the door but instead ringing the bell beside it. </p>
<p>“Uh. What are you doing?” Jaskier asks, hopping on shaking legs and brushing lint from his doublet – which, admittedly, has seen better days. </p>
<p>“Calling for a bath,” Geralt states.</p>
<p>“Oh,” Jaskier says dumbly, because, right, that had been what they had been discussing before the groundbreaking revelation of physical transformation and <em>of course</em> Geralt is being nice and changing his plans for him. “You don’t have to do that. You can still go to the fancy bathhouse if you want, and –”</p>
<p>“And miss a masterpiece in the making?” Geralt teases with a raised eyebrow.</p>
<p>Jaskier smiles, unsurprised to find tears in his eyes at Geralt’s unending kindness. He wants to write this man a thousand songs, each dedicated to his good heart because he’s certain that it would never grow old. Instead, he crosses the room and takes Geralt’s face between his hands, kissing him as sweetly as he’s able. </p>
<p>“Thank you,” he murmurs against Geralt’s lips. Not just for this kindness, but for every kindness that preceded it. “Thank you.”</p>
<p>Geralt sighs into the kiss, returning it just as sweetly until Jaskier is dizzy with his affection, held safe and secure in Geralt’s strong arms. <em>Yes</em>, he muses, this is quite a revelation, but for as long as Geralt is standing beside him, Jaskier wagers that he’ll land on his feet. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0048"><h2>48. Chapter 48</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Geralt wakes at dawn and stretches with a satisfied groan, enjoying the novelty of a bed large enough to fit his frame and the obscenely soft sheets that shift beneath him. He can’t remember the last time that he slept so well and worries that it may have been since their lazy summer in Toussaint. He feels just as well rested now than he did from that entire season and he suspects the reason as to why when he curls up beside Jaskier and hears him sigh sleepily in response before drifting back to sleep.</p><p>They are so much more <em>tactile</em> with each other now. Geralt does not shy away from the loving touches that he has always wanted to bestow Jaskier, and Jaskier seems equally as eager to share affection in return. Geralt does not understand Jaskier’s attraction to him but he must find something about him intriguing because he keeps looking at Geralt… well, like Geralt looks at him. He doesn’t understand it in the least but when Geralt brushes his lips against naked skin, and interlocks inquisitive fingers, and wraps Jaskier in his arms as much as he desires, Jaskier eagerly accepts every touch.</p><p>Geralt wagers that he had spent most of the night wrapped around his bard in some fashion and he does not even feel ashamed for it. He needed the closeness. And he is no longer afraid to admit to such vulnerability.</p><p>They had lounged in the suite all evening – indulging in the inn’s finest food and finest wine in their private library – before playing a couple of games of gwent by the fireplace. Jaskier’s mind had clearly been elsewhere and Geralt didn’t chastise him for it; even throwing his hand a couple of times just so Jaskier didn't grow too disheartened. Jaskier’s distraction was entirely understandable and when he fell into periods of deep contemplation, Geralt knew better than to interrupt.</p><p>Despite his evident turmoil over the news, Jaskier still seems to have slept soundly. He snores softly in Geralt’s arms, his nose occasionally wrinkling or his fingers sometimes twitching; his perpetual restlessness apparent even in the throes of sleep. Geralt wonders what he dreams of – if he dreams of playing before a cheering crowd, of graduating from Oxenfurt with Distinction, of travelling with Geralt to the far reaches of the Continent… He hopes they are pleasant dreams. Jaskier deserves some peace after the stress of this last year. Hopefully Jaskier’s financial woes will soon be behind him and he can focus once more on his schoolwork with the dedication that Geralt knows he desires. Perhaps he will be free to travel with Geralt once more in summer.</p><p>Geralt slips into a soft doze, nuzzling the back of Jaskier’s neck and fantasising about this very thing. He imagines another pleasant summer with Jaskier by his side but this time he would not need to resist the urge to gaze at him when his eyes sparkle as blue as the ocean, or take his hand when walking the historic streets, or kiss him when his lips are wine-stained and laughing so sweetly. He imagines sharing a bedroll on the road as well as sharing beds in inns and finds that he is no longer afraid of the act.</p><p>They could be together, with no boundaries, and Geralt’s affection would not be unwelcome.</p><p>It is a pleasant thought, and Geralt could easily spend the day cocooned in his lover’s warm embrace thinking of their future, but Jaskier is clearly in need of his sleep and Geralt fears waking him with his restlessness.</p><p>He brushes a kiss across the back of Jaskier’s shoulder before extracting himself from the bed and conducting his business in the city.</p><p>Geralt takes Roach for a turn about the square, deposits their shabby clothes with the tailor, and by the time Geralt returns to the suite with breakfast in his arms, Jaskier is blearily opening his eyes and beckoning Geralt back to bed with sleepy hands.</p><p>“Where have you <em>been</em>?” Jaskier mumbles into the pillow. “You promised me a night of cuddling –”</p><p>Geralt raises an eyebrow because he’s fairly certain the word ‘cuddling’ has never passed his lips.</p><p>“Alright, fine, you promised no such thing. But it was <em>implied</em>. And yet here I am, waking up alone and – Oh,” he says, his diatribe coming to a swift end as his eyes widen in delight. “Are those <em>pastries</em>?”</p><p>Geralt rolls his eyes as Jaskier scrambles to sit upright; his outstretched hands now beckoning for the baked goods rather than Geralt. He relents though, delivering the little straw basket of goods into Jaskier’s hands so that he may procure the fruit juice on the sideboard.</p><p>When he turns back around with a filled goblet, Jaskier’s mouth is already stuffed full of pastry and jam and he’s making some utterly obscene noises with his eyes rolled upwards in bliss.</p><p>Geralt raises an eyebrow at this ridiculous behaviour but finds that a smile twitches at his lips nonetheless; happy to see his bard so happy, even if it is over something so small.</p><p>Jaskier hurries to swallow his mouthful just so he can retort that it’s high time Geralt tries such ‘sweet treats’ and he does – he kisses the taste from Jaskier’s lips until even Jaskier forgets that there had been food put in front of him.</p><p>“I like this,” Jaskier murmurs against Geralt’s lips, feeding him a bite of the pastry before following it up with a kiss.</p><p>“Hmm?”</p><p>“The kissing,” he says with a kiss against Geralt’s jaw, “the touching,” he says with hands slipping beneath Geralt’s shirt, “the nakedness…?” he proposes with a coy smile.</p><p>Geralt tilts his head in fond amusement and relents, tugging his shirt over his head so that Jaskier’s hands can run over his chest unimpeded.</p><p>“Yes,” Jaskier murmurs, “that’s <em>very</em> good.”</p><p>And then he does the most ridiculous thing that Jaskier has perhaps <em>ever</em> done, and pushes Geralt down onto the bed so that he can use his chest as a fucking <em>table</em>.</p><p>“<em>Jaskier</em> –”</p><p>“Shh,” he encourages, encouraging Geralt to stay still with a firm hand on his chest. “I’m <em>eating</em>.”</p><p>Geralt’s chest is soon covered in crumbs and jam and spit and he can’t say that he understands the appeal until Jaskier’s lips close around his nipple, sucking and nibbling and caressing it far more than the drop of jam would necessitate, and then Geralt <em>definitely</em> understands the appeal.</p><p>Geralt cannot believe he has walked this Path for so long without realising how <em>good</em> it feels to be touched like this. Jaskier squeezes his abs, and licks his sternum, and bites his nipples until Geralt is groaning from the stimulation.</p><p>Jaskier merely <em>giggles</em> like the menace he is and takes his time to finish his meal as if he is oblivious to Geralt’s distress, before he licks his lips obscenely and rests his arms on Geralt’s chest, beaming up at him like he’s fucking <em>innocent</em>. “Mmm… tasty.”</p><p>Geralt narrows his eyes, not buying Jaskier’s innocence for a minute when he can see that mischievous smile underneath.</p><p>“Well,” Jaskier says with a smirk, leaning up and away from Geralt. “That was a very pleasant breakfast, I suppose I ought to –”</p><p>Geralt growls and surges forward, tackling Jaskier back down to the bed until he’s leaning over him with his teeth bared.</p><p>Geralt doesn’t realise how aggressive the gesture is until Jaskier freezes underneath him. Geralt’s about to withdraw, about to apologise, when he is suddenly smothered by a thick cloud of desire and the widest fucking eyes staring back at him.</p><p>It startles him into a whole other direction entirely. Jaskier has always claimed that he doesn’t find Geralt monstrous but here is the proof, right here, in the sultry smile and heavy breathing beneath him, with not a lick of fear to his scent.</p><p>“<em>Fuck</em>, I love it when you do that,” Jaskier breathes, and then Geralt is being pulled down into a kiss full of tongue and teeth.</p><p>Understandably, it takes them a little while to leave the bed after that. Geralt ruts against his side while fingering him open and then this time, when he sinks into Jaskier’s welcoming heat, Jaskier sighs in pleasure until he’s screaming to be taken harder, and they don’t rest until their sweaty, writhing bodies are somehow pressed against the headboard and Jaskier’s kisses have turned sweet and exhausted in his mouth.</p><p>*</p><p>“Urgh, I feel gross,” Jaskier bemoans, attempting to untangle himself from between Geralt and the very nicely carved headboard that – now he’s looking – might have some signs of stress that weren’t so evident before.</p><p>Geralt huffs against the back of his neck and obligingly retreats. “You’re not the one covered in jam.”</p><p>“Right, right,” Jaskier muses. “Sticky stuff. Did you say there was a bathhouse nearby?”</p><p>Geralt raises an eyebrow before rapidly concealing his surprise with a faux-casual shrug. “Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat. “Just up the street. There’s, uh, these wooden divisions between baths. Should be fairly private.”</p><p>“Right, let’s go then!” Jaskier says, hopping up from the bed before he loses his nerve.</p><p>He didn’t think he’d feel this good after this particular round of activities – penetration sometimes jars him, as does nudity, so the combination ought to be a surefire way to unsettle him, but he’s actually feeling <em>good</em>. He supposes that Geralt’s arm wrapped tight around his chest lessened the movement that would normally unsettle him and their frantic lovemaking didn’t give his mind long enough to loiter on his insecurities. Geralt has always been good at working around Jaskier’s anxieties but sometimes he forgets <em>how</em> good until they do something that ought to be unsettling and Jaskier walks away feeling <em>good</em> about it.</p><p>Jaskier captures Geralt as he’s pulling on his braies and pulls him into a kiss that he hopes conveys his gratitude. Geralt sighs in the kiss and his arm curls around his waist, hand pressing into the small of his back in that way that makes Jaskier <em>melt,</em> and his admiration for his Witcher only deepens.</p><p>Geralt is so attentive to his needs, and <em>tonight</em>, if Jaskier gets his way, he wants to repay the favour. He saw how boneless Geralt grew under his ministrations just now – the way he sighed and groaned under Jaskier’s lips as if no one had ever taken the time to kiss that marvellous chest of his before – and he wants to spend an entire evening caressing every part of Geralt until he understands just how beautiful he is. Jaskier wants to see him boneless under his touch, to see him shamelessly submissive and pleading for more. He wants to lavish the man with all the love that he harbours in his chest until Geralt understands that even a Witcher is deserving of affection.</p><p>“You’re plotting something,” Geralt says with scepticism when Jaskier pulls away from the kiss.</p><p>Jaskier lays a hand over his heart, feigning innocence. “Me? Never! You take that back, sir, right this instance!”</p><p>Geralt grunts, disbelieving, but there is a small smile that tells Jaskier that his mischievousness is welcome. <em>Gods</em>, how he loves that smile. He kisses it, for good measure, before finding his own clothes strewn about the room.</p><p>“So, dear Witcher,” he says, taking the man by the hand, “I believe you owe me a tour of this delightful city.”</p>
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<a name="section0049"><h2>49. Chapter 49</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>sorry this is later in the day than usual but I had to post the new song - <a href="https://vands38.tumblr.com/post/647259797335441408/written-for-the-fic-return-to-oxenfurt-the">saviour of the seas</a>, which is the sea shanty that the shipbuilders sing when they're at the harbour. when we get to the skelliege arc (next one after Novigrad) then it'll have more relevance but it slotted in nicely here so I figured I'd lay the groundwork.</p><p>cw: jaskier has more body thoughts this chapter, so please be wary. you can just skip over the last scene if needbe.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Geralt watches Jaskier carefully throughout the day but he seems to be in good spirits; untroubled by his body as they recline in the baths, and cheerful enough to splash Geralt with water when he teases Jaskier for his straying eyes –</p><p>“He had a tattoo of a <em>symphonia</em>, Geralt. Not only are hurdy-gurdys a modern and offensive instrument that sound more like a chorus of strangled cats than actual music, but who would dare love one enough to get it permanently engraved on their <em>buttocks</em>?”</p><p>Afterwards, they roam around town, whiling away the last hours of the morning while they wait for the bookshop to open and the tailor to finish their repairs.</p><p>“Did you give Betilda a time?”</p><p>“Hmm?” Geralt asks, tearing his eyes away from that mast on that sailboat that must be near a hundred years old.</p><p>“Betilda? The woman you said we could meet? Is there a particular time that you have arranged with her?”</p><p>Geralt tries not to look too startled by the abrupt change in conversation but Jaskier has not broached the topic of Aretuza since they’d initially discussed it yesterday, and he did not expect Jaskier to have finished percolating already.</p><p>He grunts, turning his gaze back to the surrounding harbour so he doesn’t unsettle Jaskier with his intensity. Jaskier is asking in a casual manner, so Geralt will answer in the same vain. “Tomorrow morning, before we leave for Oxenfurt,” he says with a shrug. “Betilda is retired and her schedule is fairly flexible, but I thought that you might want a day or two to consider.”</p><p>Jaskier nods. “Right, right, that makes sense. Oh! Do you hear that?” he says, eyes rapidly searching the horizon like a horse with pricked ears. “That’s a sea shanty! Oh, I <em>love</em> sea shanties, Geralt, they tell you so much about maritime life and local legends and –”</p><p>And then the bard is skipping down the docks towards a horde of hardened shipbuilders with not a care in the world. Geralt sighs and follows suit, preparing to rescue the bard from the inevitable brawl that will start when he insults their form, but when Geralt arrives at the scene, it seems that his concern was completely unfounded. Jaskier has somehow already charmed the workmen and has slipped into place beside them, handing them equipment and even twirling a hammer of his own as he sings along with the company.</p><p>Jaskier’s unsteady voice is not so obvious amongst these untrained men, and when they start on another (very dirty) ditty, Geralt leans back against a fisherman’s barrel to enjoy the show.</p><p>It doesn’t take long for the shipbuilders to start eyeing Jaskier’s bound breasts with interest (because seamen, in Geralt’s experience, are the horniest fuckers on the planet) but when they realise that Jaskier isn’t much of a woman at all, they have such a bizarre reaction that even Jaskier seems surprised by it.</p><p>One of the lads calls up to another, and soon there is hollering and shouting and chanting about ‘the saviour’ which soon turns into a song by that very name. The shanty tells the story of a man much like Jaskier who fought a fearsome beast on the open ocean and was heralded for his bravery. His name (known only as ‘saviour’) has since become a prayer of sorts for venturing sailors, wishing for safe passage through their travels.</p><p>Geralt is fairly certain that this ‘kraken’ the saviour fought doesn’t actually exist, but Jaskier seems honoured nonetheless and returns to Geralt’s side with a spring in his step, prattling about the structure or something all the way back to Hierarch Square.</p><p>-</p><p>“I thought we might go somewhere nice tonight,” Geralt says when Jaskier is too busy chowing down on a street stick to keep talking about the sea shanty. “There’s a wine bar that does food up in Highertown. It’s meant to be nice.”</p><p>Jaskier swallows his mouthful of chicken with glee. “Oh, that sounds <em>divine</em>!” he exclaims. “As long as you don’t mind, of course, I’m aware that I’m unable to pay my way at the moment, and I don’t want to put you out –”</p><p>“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupts with a sigh, pushing a vegetable stick of some kind into his hands when they pass another vendor. “Think nothing of it. My money is your doing anyhow. I don’t mind spending it.”</p><p>Jaskier rolls his eyes as if disparaging the sentiment but he doesn’t outright argue against it, so Geralt counts that as progress.</p><p>-</p><p>When they approach the tailors shortly after lunch, Geralt is dismayed to find Jaskier frowning at the shop window. He looks towards Jaskier with a tilted head, wondering what has his bard looking so forlorn.</p><p>“Oh, it’s nothing,” Jaskier sighs wistfully, somehow reading Geralt’s unspoken question. “There was this lovely magenta doublet in the window the last time we walked past, that’s all. Likely out of my price range anyway, but it was nice to think about… It even had a matching cap,” he laments, “Feather and all.”</p><p>Jaskier sighs again like a broken-hearted lover, and Geralt has to bite down on his smug smile in response, lest he ruin the surprise. He nudges him towards the doorway instead. “It is no longer in the window, bard, because it is already in your possession.”</p><p>Jaskier’s head snaps towards him, his mouth agape and eyes blinking owlishly. “Wh…” he splutters, and tries again. “What? When? Why? How?” He shakes his head and repeats, emphatically, “<em>What</em>.”</p><p>“I put it aside for you,” Geralt shrugs, hesitating on the porch. “I asked Quentin to find the most ostentatious dress in the store and when he pointed to that bright purple –”</p><p>“Magenta.”</p><p>“– monstrosity in the window, I realised that it might not have been the pilasters that you were looking at yesterday but the hideous doublet displayed between them.”</p><p>Jaskier shakes his head with confusion. “I’m sorry, what the <em>fuck</em> are ‘pilasters’ –”</p><p>Geralt shrugs and points out towards the exterior of the building. “Ornamental columns. There’s some outside.”</p><p>“<em>Melitele’s tits</em>, Geralt. It is both <em>very</em> sexy and <em>very</em> baffling to me that you’re so obsessed with architecture. It’s a <em>column</em> for fuck’s sake –”</p><p>“It’s three hundred years old,” Geralt states. “One of the few examples of Dwarven architecture in the city. The tailor’s pilasters were originally painted with gold paint from Toussaint but when the drought came in 1206, the citizens were so poor that they stripped the pilasters to sell the powdered gold and the city never sought to replace it.”</p><p>Jaskier’s mouth hangs agape before he puts his hands on his hips with a pout. “Well. Okay. That’s… actually, completely <em>fascinating</em>. Be sure to show me on the way out. But the <em>doublet</em>, Geralt!” he says, flailing his arms towards the window. “It was <em>beautiful</em>! How could I have possibly admired those historic pilasters when such majestic beauty laid before me? Begging for a bard’s touch? Longing for completion? Calling out for me across the breadth of this great historic city?”</p><p>“Hence why I put the damn thing aside. It’s about your size, and was second-hand, so hardly an expense… probably because someone took one look at that absurd colour and realised their colossal idiocy –”</p><p>“<em>Geralt</em> –”</p><p>“We’re going somewhere fancy,” Geralt states, cutting across Jaskier’s building retort. “I thought you might want to look fancy.”</p><p>Jaskier is silent as he gazes back at the shop window. Too silent. Geralt can’t tell what he’s thinking. <em>Fuck</em>. “Sorry. I presumed. You don’t have to –”</p><p>“Geralt, if you don’t stop talking right this instance, I am going to drag you into that alleyway and do things to you that are very likely illegal to do to a man in public. You bought me a <em>doublet</em> –”</p><p>“I might change my mind,” Geralt says with a twitch of lips, relieved at Jaskier’s joyous flirtation. “It’s truly hideous.”</p><p>“You take that back, sir, right this instance!” Jaskier exclaims with a wagging finger. “It is a <em>beautiful</em> doublet in a <em>beautiful</em> colour. And it’s to be <em>mine</em>!” he swoons, clasping his hands together with glee. “Oh! I’m so happy! You’re such a sweetheart. You really didn’t have to do this –”</p><p>But as Jaskier continues to preen and prance and salivate over the doublet, Geralt is very happy that he <em>did </em>treat Jaskier so. He nudges Jaskier into the store and collects their mended clothes while Quentin circles Jaskier with a tape measure, muttering under his breath and making note of any more adjustments that need to be made.</p><p>Eventually, both bard and tailor are happy and Jaskier insists on wearing the purple monstrosity straight away, posing and peacocking in the shop mirror while Geralt discusses payment with Quentin.</p><p>“What about yours?” Jaskier pipes up when coins have exchanged hands. “If we’re going somewhere fancy, don’t you need a doublet as well?”</p><p>Geralt grumbles and grunts and the tailor perks up at the sound of another potential sale.</p><p>“I don’t need –”</p><p>“Oh, nonsense, nonsense –” Quentin mutters, and soon he and Jaskier are conspiring against him and forcing him to choose between three equally tight and uncomfortable looking doublets.</p><p>Geralt chooses the least frilly and the darkest coloured option, which turns out to be a dark grey doublet with a black threaded paisley pattern, which apparently goes well with his “complexion” and has Jaskier smelling sweetly of lust in a manner that Geralt truly does not understand.</p><p>“I feel like a scarecrow,” Geralt complains, testing the constrictive sleeves and finding that he cannot even raise his hands above his head like he would need to in order to wield a sword.</p><p>“A very <em>sexy</em> scarecrow,” Jaskier corrects, and Geralt sighs and hands over the coin, because as long as Jaskier is happy, he supposes he can put up with a couple of hours of doublet-wearing and return the damn thing in the morning.</p><p>Geralt changes back into his blissfully-loose shirt and then they are making their way to the bookshop – Geralt retrieving the book for Professor Gascoigne and accidentally (or not so accidentally) playing a few rounds of gwent with the proprietor while Jaskier gets lost in the stacks.</p><p>-</p><p>“I was reading about Aretuza,” Jaskier says when they eventually leave at sundown. “I don’t know much about it. But neither does anyone else, apparently. Oh sure, everyone knows that the sorceresses go in for some kind of beautifying ritual but no one knows what happens behind those closed doors. Do you reckon it’s similar to the mutagens that you took? I know you don’t like to talk about it, but it must be a similar kind of magic, right? In order to change bodies like that? I can’t imagine that there’s too many ways to do such a thing. How did yours work exactly?”</p><p>“Unpleasantly,” Geralt grunts, before tilting his head towards the inn.</p><p>Jaskier seemingly understands his request to delay the conversation until they are encased in the safety of the inn, and doesn’t broach the topic again until they’re standing on their private balcony overlooking Hierarch Square.</p><p>“I don’t remember much of it,” Geralt says at last, glancing up in the setting sun. “We were young. And any record of the procedure was lost during the sacking, so there are no books we could consult.”</p><p>“But magic was involved?”</p><p>Geralt shrugs. “Potions were involved.”</p><p>“Right,” Jaskier says, taking off his new feathered cap with a sigh and joining Geralt against the railings as they watch the merchants set down their stalls. “I suppose it depends how you define such things. I’m sorry I asked. I know you don’t like talking about it.”</p><p>“It’s fine,” Geralt hurries to reassure, because he knows Jaskier wouldn’t ask about his past without reason.</p><p>“I just haven’t stopped thinking about it. Aretuza, I mean.”</p><p>Jaskier’s mouth twists in thought as he looks out into the square and Geralt reaches across to squeeze his hand, wondering how much of Jaskier’s day was lost to such contemplation.</p><p>“We’ll get some answers tomorrow,” he says, hoping it may come as some comfort to the bard. “And if you think of any more to ask, then I’m sure Betilda would be willing to write.”</p><p>Jaskier nods his head and slumps over the railings as the sky shifts around them. “I had just never thought about it. Or rather, I <em>had</em> thought about it, but it seemed too big, and too impossible, and so I just kept… pushing it aside.”</p><p>Geralt nods. He had assumed as much. Jaskier has mentioned his desire to change his body before but he has always seemed frustrated by the idea, as if it were something that he wanted but that was impossible to achieve. Geralt understands this dismissal to a certain extent. How many times had pushed Jaskier out of his mind because he thought his affection to be unreturned?</p><p>Countless. It had been a foolish attempt to preserve equilibrium because stability is always less daunting than change, and denial more tenable than hope. Perhaps this concept of transformation had been just as persistent for Jaskier; the idea tugging at his thoughts and slipping into his dreams… but always too afraid to reach for it; afraid of what addressing such thoughts might entail.</p><p>“I don’t even know what I would want,” Jaskier muses, as he watches people mill around the market square below. “I keep thinking: if someone told me I could just wave my hand and change anything about my body, what would I change? And I know the obvious answer. I know that <em>these</em> would be the first thing to go –” he says, waving his hand over his chest with his nose crinkled in distaste, “but as for the rest of it?” he asks, with another motion of the hand. “I don’t know. I don’t know if I’d <em>want</em> that. I don’t know what it would mean if I did. Or how I would feel about it after the fact. Like… what if they give me the most beautiful dick in the world, and it’s real and it’s perfect and it’s like something straight out of my dreams, but I hold it in my hands and it doesn’t feel… <em>right</em>, you know? How can you ever be certain of that? What if I change my body to how I’ve always dreamed it would be but when I get it in reality, it doesn’t feel like <em>me</em>?”</p><p>Jaskier looks to Geralt with pleading eyes before breaking the gaze with a groan, resting his head on their conjoined hands and breathing deeply and shakily.</p><p>Jaskier clearly needs a moment, but Geralt doesn’t want him to feel alone in his distress, and opts to rest a hand on his back, moving his hand in comforting movements as the body beneath him continues to shake.</p><p>“I’ve only ever had <em>this</em> body, Geralt,” Jaskier murmurs into his arms. “And I may have hated it at times, and it may have changed me – and I, <em>it</em> – but it’s still <em>mine</em>. I know it. I understand it. And I don’t know what it would be like to say goodbye to something until it’s already gone.”</p><p>Geralt hums in understanding and gives Jaskier another minute as he tilts his head in his arms to look out over the balcony once more.</p><p>Eventually, Jaskier breathes out shakily and rises again, squeezing Geralt’s hand tighter than ever before. “On one hand,” he says, “it’s no different than taking hart root, but on the other… a magical, physical, transformation… that is much more permanent. There is no going back from that. And that is both really fucking exciting and really fucking daunting at the same fucking time.”</p><p>Jaskier huffs a laugh and pounds his fists against the railings with tears in his eyes before he wipes at his red eyes with an angry swipe of hands. “<em>Fuck</em>, I shouldn’t even be thinking about this right now. It’ll be too dangerous. And too expensive. And it might not be the fix-it-all that we think it is. And I shouldn’t even…” he sniffles, and stands up straighter, visibly trying to move past his anguish. “I shouldn’t even contemplate this until we know more. Maybe it isn’t permanent, you know?” he says, with a wet near-hysterical laugh. “Maybe you click your fingers or make a wish on a djinn and –”</p><p>Geralt huffs a laugh along with Jaskier as he clicks his fingers and dissolves into laughter, no doubt imagining all the absurd things he would do if he could transform his body with such ease.</p><p>“You don’t have to make this decision now,” Geralt reminds him softly when Jaskier’s hiccuping laughs have died down. “Or ever, if you don’t want to.”</p><p>“I know,” Jaskier murmurs, nudging his head against Geralt’s shoulder. “We’ll find out more, and then I’ll…” he waves his head against the setting sun as he puffs out a breath of air. “Well. I guess we’ll see <em>what</em> I’ll do.”</p><p>Geralt draws him more fully into his arms and presses a kiss against his forehead. They stand there for a moment, just holding each other as Jaskier’s breathing resumes its steady cycle.</p><p>“How will I know I’m making the right decision?” Jaskier whispers after some time.</p><p>Geralt hums in contemplation, wondering how he can advise on something so abstract to him. But then he remembers the instinct he had when he first met Jaskier and the certainty he feels in his chest every time he looks at him. And he remembers what he said in that history class; the line that Jaskier has since quoted back at him as the sentiment that sent his preconceptions unravelling: <em>sometimes you don’t know what’s right until you know what’s wrong</em>. Sometimes it’s a process of trial and error, yes, but at other times, you just have to take a leap of faith.</p><p>“You trust your gut,” Geralt says with certainty. “You’ll feel it when it’s right. You’ll know.”</p><p>Geralt feels Jaskier exhale against his chest and the sudden release of tension from the weight that had been resting on his shoulders. Jaskier twists in his arms until he can cup Geralt’s cheek, and the touch is so gentle and his smile so sweet that Geralt wonders if he thinks of their relationship in kind.</p><p>“Yeah,” Jaskier breathes, his eyes alight with a thousand colours of changing skies. “Yeah, I’ll know.”</p><p>Jaskier kisses him, tender but assured, like the cautious first steps beyond the horizon, and Geralt is content to hold him until the night falls around them.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0050"><h2>50. Chapter 50</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>cw: we’ve got some D/s vibes this chapter including potential subspace and potentially under-negotiated praise kink. Geralt just *clenches fist* needs to love himself.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Geralt looks <em>gorgeous</em>. Jaskier is trying to focus on this fancy wine-soaked mutton and the fancy ambiance and everything else in his fancy-arse wine bar but there Geralt is, looking devastatingly handsome, right in front of him. <em>Fuck</em>, even his cheekbones look more defined in this soft candlelight. </p><p>At this point, Jaskier is just sitting with his head on his hands <em>staring</em> at his Witcher and he doesn’t even care how it looks. He’s <em>gorgeous</em>. That doublet is so tight that his biceps visibly bulge every time he reaches over to refill Jaskier’s wine glass. He looks so <em>good</em> all dressed up like this. Oh, <em>Geralt</em> hates the doublet, that much is obvious, he keeps tugging at the tight collar and scowling as if he doesn’t know what a gorgeous neck he has. Is that a normal thing to be salivating about? A neck? Probably not. But Jaskier just stares at that thick column of flesh and imagines running his tongue across it until he reaches the underside of Geralt’s jaw where he always makes that little groan and…</p><p>“Anything else I can get for you gentlemen?”</p><p>Jaskier yelps and startles upright as the waiter approaches, so lost in his sexual fantasy that he temporarily forgot that he was getting very horny in public. Judging from Geralt’s amused smile and raised eyebrow though, it didn’t go unnoticed by <em>him</em>. </p><p>“Uh, we’re fine?” Jaskier squeaks. “Right, Geralt? Very nice though it was, I think we ought to be heading –”</p><p>“You don’t want dessert?” Geralt asks, but there’s a damn glint in his eye that says he knows <em>exactly</em> what kind of dessert Jaskier is after.</p><p>“Nope!” Jaskier manages to say in a semi-normal fashion, turning back to the waiter with a blush as bright as the red velvet tablecloths, “We’re good. Definitely good. So if you could, uh –” Jaskier suffers a moment of embarrassment when he remembers that he’s unable to pay for the meal himself but it’s not like his brain has space to wallow in self-pity now when it’s so fucking horny. Any brain power not currently obsessing over Geralt’s beauty is currently attempting to speak to the waiter. “Pay. We’d like to pay. Thank you. That would be great. Thank you.”</p><p>The waiter looks unamused but thankfully departs before Geralt snorts the laugh that he had been dutifully withholding. “Smooth,” he says, before draining the last of his wine.</p><p>“No thanks to you!” Jaskier retorts, squeezing his legs together under the table to relieve some of the pressure that little chuckle had caused. “It’s not my fault that my brain ceases to function when you’re dressed up all nice. I’ve been distracted all night long.”</p><p>“Yes, I’ve noticed,” Geralt drawls with a smug little smirk. “If I knew the doublet did it for you –”</p><p>“<em>You</em> do it for me, to be clear, but that doublet is…” Jaskier trails off to bite his lip with a groan. “Oh, that doublet is <em>very</em> good.”</p><p>Geralt flusters, and grunts and tugs at the collar again. “For you, maybe. I hate this thing. Can’t wait to get out of it.”</p><p>“I can’t wait to <em>get</em> you out of it,” Jaskier mutters under his breath while he swigs the last of his wine, but he knows his flirtation has been heard by the licking of lips before him.</p><p><em>Oh</em>, as soon as they are behind closed doors, he is going to <em>ravish</em> that man.</p><p>*</p><p>Jaskier has made his intentions <em>very</em> clear throughout the night. He has been handsy, and flirtatious, and smelled so strongly of desire while they were finishing their meals that Geralt had started to wonder if <em>other</em> people could smell his slick too. He loves when Jaskier is confident like this; he loves the possessive way that he kisses him when they step into their room, and the determined way that he walks them back to the bed. </p><p>Geralt rarely gets to enjoy being submissive in the bedroom. People see his stature, and know his profession, and assume from that that they know his sexual preferences. There is also a certain amount of vulnerability required in being submissive that Geralt doesn’t usually trust strangers to respect. But Jaskier has never been afraid of him like everyone else. He has never made assumptions about Geralt’s preferences and even the first time they laid together, Jaskier had felt comfortable fighting him for control. Geralt had trusted him instinctively from the first time they crossed paths and that trust has only deepened since, so Jaskier can lead him, and maneuver him, and command the situation and Geralt never grows anxious at the loss of control. The opposite happens, in fact – he <em>relaxes</em>, because he knows he can. He feels <em>safe</em> under Jaskier’s hands, in a way that no one else has ever managed to achieve.</p><p>And so, Jaskier directs the kiss and their clumsy path towards the bed, and by the time Geralt is pushed down onto the plush sheets and Jaskier straddles him, he has completely relaxed into Jaskier’s touch. </p><p>Jaskier seems content to stay seated on the foot of the bed for a while, just rocking their bodies together and kissing Geralt until the kisses turn more sweet than hungry. Then Jaskier’s lips depart to lick tantalisingly from the collar of his damned doublet up to the underside of his chin where Geralt can’t help but groan at the sensitive touch.</p><p>“I’m going to kiss every part of you,” Jaskier murmurs into his jaw, as those little biting kisses continue across his neck</p><p>Geralt groans and anchors his hand in Jaskier’s hair as his sweet ministrations continue. No one’s ever treated him like this. Held him like this. Kissed him like this. <em>Spoken</em> to him like – </p><p>“You’re beautiful,” Jaskier sighs, and a deeply hidden part of Geralt quakes with desire. “I’m going to make you see it, okay? And if it gets too much, you just tell me, you just tap me wherever you can reach,” he says, and reaches behind him to adjust Geralt’s hand and demonstrate the movement of two fingers tapping against his skull, “do that and I’ll stop. I’ll give you a breather. And then I’ll tell you how gorgeous you are all over again.”</p><p>“Jaskier…” Geralt groans, unable to stay silent under such an onslaught. He feels raw inside. Like he’s being torn apart. But Jaskier’s touch is so gentle, and reverent, and his kisses are so sweet. And he’s <em>safe</em> when he’s with Jaskier. He <em>knows</em> he is because Jaskier gave him the option to retreat, and, more than that, knew that Geralt would need a non-verbal cue. Jaskier knows him more intimately than anyone else on the Continent, and if he desires to embarasses Geralt with undeserved flatteries and make love to him like an inexperienced maiden, then he trusts that Jaskier has a reason for his madness and trusts that he will see him safely through to the end.</p><p>“It’s hard, I know,” Jaskier is murmuring against his throat, “to believe these sentiments and not to shy away from them. The world is cruel to you because they know only the stories. They don’t know you. But <em>I</em> know you. I see how beautiful you are,” he says, fingering the curved scar along his cheek and then falling until his hand lies over Geralt’s heart. “And you are more beautiful, and more magnificent, than any other I’ve ever known.”</p><p>Geralt is wrought entirely flustered under these words and the tight collar of the doublet grows even more restrictive around his neck. He feels embarrassed and discomforted but the rawness inside of him still craves these words. He doesn’t understand it. He doesn’t know how to be this vulnerable. And, as he’s processing all this, what actually comes out is a joke, “You couldn’t have been this eloquent to the waiter?”</p><p>Jaskier snorts, clearly shocked by his humour of the situation too, and rests his forehead against Geralt’s with a smile. “I wasn’t trying to <em>bed</em> the waiter,” Jaskier retorts, before putting a firm hand on Geralt’s chest and pushing him down into the bed. “I’m trying to bed <em>you</em>. Now, be a good boy, and let me show you just how magnificent you are.”</p><p>*</p><p>Geralt does better than Jaskier had expected. Oh, he had clearly been struggling with the plan at first – flushed with embarrassment, and rendered uncomfortable by the whole thing – but as soon as Jaskier strips him naked and begins running his tongue over every scar and every wonder and detailing to Geralt exactly <em>why</em> that he finds this and that feature so damnably attractive, Geralt just seems to relax further and further under his ministrations, until he’s sighing into the crook of his elbow where he has decided to hide his beautiful visage. </p><p>Geralt has only asked for two breaks so far – one when Jaskier had been worshipping those beautifully rough fingertips (and presumably talking about his ability with a blade a little too much) and one when he had placed the gentlest kiss on the scar between his ribs that Renfri had left (also, very understandable) but other than that, Geralt seems to be holding up well. Jaskier has already learned three new ways to make Geralt moan, and two places to make him sigh, and also uncovered the <em>delightful</em> fact that a tongue placed in his belly button will make him <em>squirm</em>. Jaskier informed Geralt just how cute that was for the next ten minutes until he was blushing a beautiful red, and then Jaskier proceeded to tell him how lovely that blush was too. </p><p>By the time Jaskier is trailing his tongue along Geralt’s inner thigh and pressing a fingertip into his entrance, Geralt’s body is entirely boneless, and the only sounds that slip from his lips are sighs.</p><p>Jaskier has desired to see Geralt like this for so long. Ever since he met him, he wanted to know what it would be like to see this gruff monster hunter completely undone beneath his hands. Geralt was always so guarded, and so cautious, and so <em>tense</em>, like his walls always took so much energy to uphold. Jaskier wanted to ease that burden. Jaskier had worked hard to earn enough trust to reveal the vulnerability that was kept behind those stone-thick walls. It still feels like a miracle that he’s allowed to see the real Geralt, that he can voice his affection and have it, not only accepted, but also returned. It is a privilege to see Geralt this vulnerable and this relaxed, and an honour to know that it was by his hands. </p><p>And, oh, it’s beautiful, the way that Geralt opens up before him, and the way he gasps so softly when Jaskier curls his finger inside. </p><p>He loves this man, and he <em>will</em> love this man until the stars fall from the sky. </p><p>*</p><p>Jaskier reveres him in a way that Geralt doesn’t understand. </p><p>Sometimes Geralt feels just as monstrous as the monsters that he was created to hunt, but under Jaskier’s hands he feels so vulnerable, so <em>human</em>, as he lays splayed out on his bed. Jaskier touches him with sweet kisses and even sweeter words as if the mutant that lies before him is at all deserving of the praise. </p><p>Geralt slips into a haze, letting Jaskier’s unending kindness wash over him until his sweet words no longer rake at the rawness inside. Instead, they begin to feel like a balm. Like a caress just as real as his touch. <em>You’re beautiful</em>, Jaskier murmurs, and after the hundredth proclamation, Geralt finds himself thinking: <em>maybe I am</em>.</p><p>Not to the hordes of townsfolk who wish to hang him, and the brothel workers who smell like fear, but to <em>Jaskier</em>… Oh, to <em>Jaskier</em>, he might just be beautiful.</p><p>Geralt slips out of the haze just once or twice, when the rawness becomes too raw and where his self-hatred is rooted too deep to lessen, but Jaskier retreats when he’s asked and pets him sweetly while Geralt crawls out from the darkness, and when he’s returned to the light, Jaskier is there soothing him and telling him how <em>pretty</em> he looks and it’s easy to return to the blissful haze after that. </p><p>When Jaskier’s touch becomes more deliberate, with shy fingers circling his rim, it seems just as unhurried as the rest of their lovemaking. Geralt barely feels the first finger breach him and when it touches the most sensitive place inside him, a soft gasp escapes his lips, unconscious but unafraid. Jaskier has rendered him entirely undone. He has lowered every defence that Geralt had still been weakly maintaining and now his entire self feels bared to the bard. There is no barrier between his pleasure and the whimpers falling from his lips. There is no shame. There is only Jaskier and his delicate touch and soft eyes and familiar scent.</p><p>He falls back into the haze as Jaskier gradually delves deeper and stretches him further but there is a desperation to his pleasure now that there wasn’t before, and soon Geralt finds himself reaching out and fisting his hand in Jaskier’s loose shirt. </p><p>Jaskier laughs softly and bends his head to kiss Geralt’s searching fingers. “I know, darling, just hold on a little longer for me. You’re nearly there, okay?”</p><p>Geralt groans and throws his head back onto the pillow in fuzzy frustration. He’s become very familiar with Jaskier’s cock lately and he <em>knows</em> he can take it. He just needs Jaskier closer. He needs to feel his cock sliding inside of him and his chest pressed flush against his. He needs to feel Jaskier’s stuttered breath against his lips, and the hard wood pressed deep inside him. He <em>needs</em> it. </p><p>Jaskier groans, almost as if he can sense Geralt’s patience waning, and gently slides out from his kneeling position, allowing Geralt’s behind to rest on the sheets once more. </p><p>Geralt whines as he retreats but is silenced by a soft kiss against his inner thigh. “You win, darling. I’m just getting my cock –”</p><p>Geralt whines again but this time it’s for an entirely different reason as his eyes blink open to watch Jaskier traverse their room in no more than packed boxers and a very revealing shirt. He looks so good. His figure grows more angular by the day and this time, when Jaskier turns around with the trusted phallus in his hands, Geralt glimpses chest hair beneath the moonlight vest and groans with the sudden surge of lust that takes him. </p><p>“I’m coming back, I’m coming back!” Jaskier hurries to assure with a laugh, throwing aside his soft package to replace it with the stiff wooden cock instead. Geralt blinks at the ingenuity of the harness hidden beneath the boxers and the cock peeking through a slit in the fabric. “Do you like it?” Jaskier asks when he catches Geralt salivating at the sight. Jaskier starts playing with the cock and slicking it with oil as he watches Geralt, teasing him to new levels of insanity. “I started sewing just as soon as you left last time. I thought it might come in handy… pardon the pun,” he says, as the cock still slides obscenely through his closed fist. </p><p>“The potion,” Geralt grunts, recalling that there’s normally another kind of substance applied to Jaskier’s cock.</p><p>Jaskier shakes his head and returns to bed sans the aid that would make this feel good for him too. “Don’t need it,” he says, and kisses the questions from Geralt’s mouth as he finally – <em>finally</em> – returns to bed and presses Geralt back against the mattress. </p><p>Geralt groans at the sudden expense of warm flesh pressed against him and soon finds himself melting under Jaskier’s kisses again.</p><p>Jaskier pulls away with a teasing smile and another gentle kiss. “You don’t think I’d get you this relaxed, do you, only to unsettle you with magic? No, my love, I dedicate myself wholeheartedly to giving you pleasure tonight with no thought as to my own. It is about time that you received the same level of attentiveness that you so often bestow me.”</p><p>Geralt groans and tries to form the words to argue because Jaskier <em>deserves</em> attentiveness – he <em>needs</em> it – and Geralt – </p><p>“You <em>deserve</em> kindness, Geralt,” Jaskier continues, as if he was privy to Geralt’s own thoughts. “And it is no hardship on my behalf, I assure you, especially as I am currently enacting a fantasy that I have had since… oh, probably the first time I met you.”</p><p>Geralt huffs a laugh, and lets Jaskier kiss it from his lips, and then Jaskier is nudging him onto his side, and sliding up behind him, and a cock is nudging at his entrance in a way that he hasn’t felt in far too long.</p><p>Geralt curls his hand behind him to grasp onto Jaskier’s head, needing an anchor as that cock breaches his rim and pushes deep inside. There are kisses on his fingers and on his shoulder and on the back of his neck. There is a shakily exhale leaving his lips. And then there is a hard cock, heavy and still inside him, and a lover sighing his name.</p><p>*</p><p>“Geralt,” Jaskier sighs, completely mesmerised by the blissful expression on his lover’s face. He knew Geralt had wanted this, but it’s possible that he underestimated just how much as he withdraws for the first stroke and hears Geralt’s stuttered breath before him.</p><p>Geralt seems to have given himself over entirely to Jaskier during their lovemaking but none more so than now as Jaskier steadily moves within him, watching for any sign of discomfort. He is glad he chose not to use the potion on this occasion. Oh, if he could <em>feel</em> this right now – if he could feel that hot tight pressure of Geralt’s entrance squeezing around his cock – then it would be <em>glorious</em>, yes, but he also doubts that he would have the patience to move as slowly and as attentively as he does now. Jaskier may not gain much direct sexual pleasure from this act but it is another kind of pleasure entirely to observe every single gasp leaving his lover’s mouth and know that it is <em>his</em> doing. </p><p>Geralt is pressing back into Jaskier’s slow thrusts with closed eyes and a slack jaw, as if he’s on another plane of existence entirely as Jaskier makes love to him. He wonders if Geralt is only this responsive because Jaskier has spent the entire evening revealing this vulnerability, or if he will be like this <em>every</em> time. Jaskier can’t wait to find out, because now he knows how much Geralt enjoys this act, he will not let them go so long without again.</p><p>Jaskier bites into Geralt’s shoulder to suppress a moan at the wondrous sight before him but this only seems to encourage Geralt further – groaning in response and tightening his grip on Jaskier’s hair.</p><p>Oh fuck. Jaskier was not going to get through this alive. </p><p>He fucks into Geralt with deep and steady strokes, listening to his altered breathing and unconscious movements to guide him. He knows when Geralt is close because his <em>other</em> hand reaches out to grip uselessly at the sheets and he meets Jaskier thrust for thrust in a way that demands release. </p><p>“Touch yourself,” Jaskier murmurs into his ear, and Geralt’s fist immediately abandons the abused sheets to grip his member instead, tugging at the head with urgent little movements. A thrill surges through Jaskier at just how willing Geralt was to follow his order, but he doesn’t have long to enjoy it before Geralt’s breath hitches just once more and his seed is messily spilled between his fingers.</p><p>Jaskier moans at the filthy sight and feels himself fall even more in love when he glimpses the awed expression on Geralt’s face. He experiences the futile yearning to have <em>felt</em> that peak alongside him. To have felt Geralt’s channel flutter around his cock, to know the sensation of his own seed spilling deep inside his lover, and the reluctance he would no doubt feel to part. Even with the assistance of the potion, he doubts he would have been able to experience the act with the intimacy that he craves.</p><p>But that’s okay. </p><p>Because Geralt lies in his arms, looking sated and satisfied and so fucking happy, and Jaskier can’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0051"><h2>51. Chapter 51</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>cw: this chapter features a severe and prolonged episode of gender dysphoria. it happens in a sexual context and includes some internalised transphobia. there is a detailed content warning at the end of the chapter, as well as a clean summary. this is as angsty as this fic is going to get but it’s also kinda the sweetest? It’s a “high and lows” kind of chapter, so if you decide to skip over it, then please check the end notes for a summary of what you missed. thanks folks, and take care of yourselves.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jaskier extracts the cock delicately, so as to not wake Geralt. The Witcher looks more peaceful than Jaskier’s ever seen him and he can’t begrudge Geralt for not staying awake to reciprocate after such an emotional coming together. </p><p>The sudden finish leaves Jaskier on edge though – lying on his back with a hard cock and age-old anxietes. He tugs uselessly at the wooden thing, as if he could actually feel pleasure from it. Making love to Geralt like that and for so long has made him feel more connected to his cock than usual. It’s <em>his</em>. And it fills him with a hollow bitterness that he can’t fucking feel it. </p><p>He sighs and throws his arm across to Geralt. He would wake if he asked him to. He’d fuck him if he asked him to. Hell, he’d even stay up all night and talk him through this if he asked him to.</p><p>But sometimes there is nothing to be done but to wallow in your own self-pity for a while, tugging sadly at your wooden cock, while shrivelling up inside with dual horniess and frustration. </p><p>Jaskier hates that sex is never easy for him. So often, it’s accompanied by anxiety, or repulsion, or good old self-pity. He wishes he could just fuck Geralt with the enthuaism that he deserves and not have to roll the dice for which unpleasant aftereffects he will feel this time. </p><p>Jaskier groans and buries his head in his hands, rubbing at his eyes. He’s sad. And horny. And angry. And he shouldn’t need to run to Geralt every time he has a problem but… what was it Geralt said? They’re <em>partners</em> now. And partners tell each other stuff. He would want to know if Geralt was feeling this out of sorts, right? He’d want to help? Right. <em>Right</em>. So he should tell him. Right.</p><p>It takes Jaskier another three rounds of convincing to actually reach out and tap Geralt’s shoulder. Two fingers, twice, as it always is. </p><p>Geralt startles awake immediately, rolling over to look at Jaskier with a concerned frown and searching hands. Jaskier only experiences a moment’s guilt before Geralt’s gentle touch soothes it away. </p><p>“I need you,” Jaskier whispers, ashamed.</p><p>Geralt’s brow furrows and he squeezes Jaskier’s arm. Not annoyed, or upset, just… <em>concerned</em>. “What do you need?”</p><p>Jaskier releases some sort of strangled sigh as he rests his head against Geralt’s broad chest, trying to form the words to explain his mindset and failing to come up with anything substantial. </p><p>“I’m… <em>frustrated</em>,” he snaps. “I’m… mad at you, mad at myself, mad at my <em>cock</em>… I don’t even know.”</p><p>Geralt wraps his arms around him and Jaskier feels his frown press into his hair. “You didn’t come,” he states. “Do you need to?”</p><p>“I think so,” Jaskier admits, flushing with shame, “but I can’t… I can’t take it off yet. I don’t…”</p><p>Geralt hums and glances around the room. “Your potion? Can I?”</p><p>Jaskier winces, and shakes his head. “It’s not real.”</p><p>Geralt hums again, contemplatively, as he moves his hands up and down Jaskier’s shoulders in a soothing manner. </p><p>For a moment, he’s silent, and then he says, “Some people need glasses.” </p><p>Jaskier frowns and looks up at Geralt with confusion. “What?”</p><p>“Some people wear glasses to see better with,” Geralt explains. “Some people use sticks for walking. Others need herbs to balance their minds. People make adjustments all the time. There is no shame if you need –”</p><p>“It’s not <em>real</em>,” Jaskier snaps<em>. </em>He knows the point that Geralt’s making is very valid, but he’s a little too frustrated to see it right now. He doesn’t want aids or a wooden phallus or a fucking sex potion. He just wants to be <em>normal</em>. </p><p>Geralt doesn’t even blink at Jaskier’s outburst, just hums again and slowly moves one of his hands further down until it’s pressed against Jaskier’s abdomen. “Your cock is real,” he murmurs.</p><p>Jaskier growls in frustration. “It’s <em>wood</em> –”</p><p>“The <em>other one</em>,” Geralt grunts, and waits for Jaskier to gasp in realisation before his hand slips beneath Jaskier’s boxers and presses firmly against Jaskier’s swollen member. “It’s <em>very</em> real.”</p><p>Jaskier gasps, bucking against Geralt’s hand instinctively. Fuck. The sudden pressure feels so good after so long without. Desire surges within him as he grinds desperately against Geralt’s hand. He needs it so much. He groans and loosens the harness without even thinking about it as Geralt slips more of his hand into Jaskier’s boxers and strokes Jaskier’s nub firmly and fast.</p><p>“I love your cock,” Geralt growls as Jaskier continues to writhe and gasp beneath him. “I love it on my tongue and in my mouth. I love it in my hands. I love it when it presses against mine –”</p><p>Jaskier’s pleasure peaks somewhere amongst Geralt’s unexpected dirty talk, coming faster than he can ever remember doing so, after so long riled up and desperate for Geralt’s touch. He screams and rides the crest of pleasure, gripping onto Geralt as he loses himself in the bliss.</p><p>Fuck. He’d forgotten how good that could feel. He’d almost forgotten that he had a dick of his own – different, yes, but still so fucking <em>good</em>.</p><p>He groans afterwards, feeling all the wound-up stress in his muscles finally relax.</p><p>As his frustration seeps, his guilt grows. Jaskier shouldn’t have snapped at Geralt when he’d only been trying to help. That whole glasses metaphor was actually very apt, and his consideration had been very sweet. Just like when they’d first met and Jaskier had complained about his long hair. He had never once considered cutting it because it was <em>expected</em> of noblewomen and he simply hadn’t seen another way, not until Geralt said “fuck convention” and sent everything unspooling. </p><p>It was a lesson that Jaskier needed reminding of every now and then: fuck “normal”, fuck “convention”, and fuck whatever fucking rule says that he can’t feel good about himself. If it feels right to drink hart root, and wear moonlight, and use aids in bed then he should be able to do all of these things without shame. He <em>deserves</em> to enjoy his life, and to experience sex without fear of dissonance.</p><p>It doesn’t matter what “normal” is because there’s no such thing, just as it’s complete lunacy to call something “not real” when the pleasure it provides is <em>very</em> real.</p><p>Jaskier hates that his mind still falls prey to these ingrained thoughts – because after a year at the Rosebud, he knows that every single person finds a different way to be happy. He hates that in the heat of the moment, he had still considered himself <em>abnormal</em>.</p><p>Jaskier doesn’t want to harbour such negative thoughts. He doesn’t want to think about himself like that. And he is so, so, thankful that Geralt was here to remind him otherwise. </p><p>Geralt cautiously removes his hand from Jaskier’s braies and Jaskier shudders and sighs against Geralt’s lips, already mourning the loss.</p><p>“Thank you,” he murmurs.</p><p>“Was that… the right thing to do?” Geralt asks, his voice uncertain.</p><p>Jaskier barks out a laugh. “Fuck knows,” he says, pushing aside his heavy thoughts for another day. “It felt good though. I just… got too wound up, I think. Too much in my own head. I don’t know. I’m sorry I got all pissy at you. Just… never let me go that long without an orgasm again, yeah? I clearly lose my mind if I’m left to my own devices.”</p><p>Geralt huffs a laugh, and tugs him in for a gentle kiss. “Noted. Though. Your frustration is understandable.”</p><p>Jaskier snorts in disbelief, flushing with embarrassment.  </p><p>Geralt shakes his head and holds Jaskier’s chin firmly between his fingers so he’s forced to look into his eyes. “I’m serious. You’re allowed to feel frustrated about your situation, Jaskier. I may not always know how to help, but I <em>am</em> here for you, and I am thankful for anything that you choose to share with me.”</p><p>Jaskier has to look away from that earnest gaze before he grows too flustered, but he nods his head in gratitude. “I love you,” he says, peeking up from his lashes to look at Geralt’s muted astonishment. “You know that, right? I’ve mentioned it when singing your praises? Oh, Geralt of Rivia, slayer of beasts, ruler of my heart, love of my –” </p><p>Jaskier cuts himself short just before he says ‘love of my life’ because Mister Immortal would probably just scoff at the concept of a twenty-year-old professing such a thing, but it’s been near eighteen months of their courtship and he can’t be expected to suppress such sentiments <em>forever</em>. </p><p>“Anyway, I’ve mentioned that before? The whole ‘madly in love with you’ thing?” he asks, biting his lip as he glances up at Geralt again. He <em>seems</em> pleased. But one never really knows what’s happening behind that stoic face of his.</p><p>Geralt huffs a laugh and his lips turn up into a soft smile and he pulls Jaskier into a tender embrace. Jaskier’s heart melts at the sight, relieved that his proclamation is not unwelcome. “You’ve implied as much,” Geralt murmurs with that soft smile of his, “but I’m thankful for the clarification. I would have been very disappointed had I been in love with you all this time and thought it unreciprocated.”</p><p>Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat at the goddamn surety in Geralt’s voice. His tone is light-hearted but his gaze is… oh, his gaze is anything but insincere. </p><p>“Oh,” Jaskier says, too exhausted and too fragile to even process the swarm of affection inside of him right now. “Well, that’s… good to know. Very good to know. Uh. Thank you?”</p><p>Geralt huffs a laugh and nuzzles into Jaskier’s hair. “You’re tired. Get some sleep.”</p><p>Jaskier sighs shakily, overwhelmed and utterly at a loss for what to do. Yes, he’s exhausted, but he’s not sure if he <em>can</em> sleep two minutes after his paramour has just confessed his love to him.</p><p>Geralt seems to read the shock on his face and chuckles again, happier than Jaskier’s ever seen him, as he kisses along Jaskier’s neck. His hands cautiously come to rest on Jaskier’s hips, thumbing at the straps of the harness beneath his braies. </p><p>It’s a question that Jaskier takes a moment to consider, but the anguish that was there before has abated, and instead Jaskier only feels the urge to be as close to Geralt as possible. </p><p>“Yeah,” Jaskier says, steadily removing the diletto from his braies, “Yeah, I think I can take that off now.”</p><p>Geralt grunts encouragingly in response and rolls over to give Jaskier space as Jaskier replaces the hard member with the soft package he had been wearing beforehand, and removes the moonlight vest as well. Jaskier sighs at the comforting sensation of something between his legs again before he settles back in bed beside Geralt.</p><p>“I love you,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss into the back of Geralt’s neck, and is overjoyed when Geralt sleepily reaches back and squeezes his hand in response. </p><p>Jaskier grins, pressing his giddy smile into Geralt’s warmth and nuzzling him in return as the Witcher drifts once more to sleep, safe in his arms. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>detailed cw: Jaskier finds himself reluctant to remove the phallus because it has come to feel like a part of himself. He grows frustrated because he just wants to be “normal” and hates that sex and his relationship to his body is so complicated for him. When Geralt offers to use magical assistance so Jaskier can feel the phallus as his own, Jaskier snaps and states that “it’s not real”. He acknowledges later that he spoke out of frustration but these feelings are, of course, still very valid, and we are in his headspace for the duration of these thoughts. </p><p>If you skipped this chapter: Jaskier reached out and asked Geralt for help when he was feeling distraught. the two of them worked through the problem together. Afterwards, Jaskier tells Geralt that he loves him, and Geralt responds in kind.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0052"><h2>52. Chapter 52</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Geralt sleeps past dawn for the first time in recent memory. Last night had been trying for Jaskier, but it had also been revolutionary for Geralt, and it seems that they both need plenty of sleep to recuperate. </p>
<p>Geralt wraps his arms tighter around Jaskier and nuzzles the back of his neck, breathing in his familiar scent, and remembering all the kindness that Jaskier had bestowed on him last night. <em>I love you</em>, Jaskier had said. <em>You’re beautiful</em>, Jaskier had said. <em>Gorgeous. Magnificent. Divine. </em></p>
<p>Normally if someone gives Geralt a compliment then it’s because the alderman wants to pay him less, the whore wants him to be quicker, the crook doesn’t want to be beaten senseless in an alleyway… It’s rare that people are nice to him without an agenda. But Jaskier waxing poetic for hours about his beauty and his character while his hands and lips seemingly touched every part of him was a new sensation entirely. And once he had relaxed into it, Geralt realised that Jaskier was trying to convey his affection in the only way that Geralt would <em>listen</em>.</p>
<p>Jaskier can say all the pretty things he wants to say, but it’s <em>actions</em> that Geralt values most, and Jaskier putting aside his own pleasure so he could take care of Geralt demonstrated his love in a way that words would never be able to achieve. Jaskier had spent hours dismantling Geralt’s insecurities, only so that he would eventually understand how loved he was. It was the kindest thing that anyone’s ever done for him.</p>
<p>Geralt loves him in return, and hadn’t been afraid to admit it. Ever since Vesemir confronted him in Kaer Morhen about his “attachment” to Jaskier, Geralt had known, in a way, what this lingering affection signified, but it was hearing those same sentiments fall from Jaskier’s lips that eased the last of Geralt’s concerns and allowed him to finally embrace the feelings for his bard in return. </p>
<p>Was it wise to fall in love with a mortal, destined to age and tire? Probably not. But Geralt’s never done anything wise in his goddamn life. </p>
<p>Jaskier blinks awake sleepily in his arms and Geralt rumbles a greeting against the back of his neck. Jaskier had fallen asleep in nothing but a loose shirt and his packed braies and when he rolls over to stretch and greet Geralt in kind, the shirt rides tantalisingly high until Geralt can see the few hairs leading down to his pelvis.</p>
<p>Geralt licks his lips and lures Jaskier into a kiss with two fingers pressed under his chin. They kiss, sleepy and slow, for a few minutes until Jaskier breaks away with a satisfied sigh. </p>
<p>“Are you well?” Geralt asks, his voice still thick with sleep. He rubs Jaskier’s shoulder blades as he asks, inadvertently mirroring the comfort that he gave last night while Jaskier had grown frustrated with his body. Geralt still feels immensely guilty for sleeping through Jaskier’s turmoil – but so, so, proud of Jaskier for waking him, and reaching out for help when he needed it. </p>
<p>Jaskier ducks his head with a blush, likely remembering the same event. “Yes, thank you. I’m sorry I –”</p>
<p>Geralt shakes his head. “Nothing to be sorry for.”</p>
<p>“Well, still,” Jaskier says, breaking away to scratch at the back of his neck in a nervous habit of his. “I feel embarrassed. That was not how I wanted our night to go.” </p>
<p>Geralt shrugs, and brings those restless fingers to his lips for a gentle kiss. “As long as you are well, I do not mind.”</p>
<p>Jaskier smiles shyly, and watches with a dazed expression as Geralt continues to caress his fingers. “I am well,” he says absently, and then blinks and looks up at Geralt with a twitch of his lips. “Though I do wonder if I might have imagined a conversation we had in the early hours of this morning. Very romantic. Very un-Geralt-y. Full of grand declarations and such. If it was a hallucination on my part, feel free to set me right – I wouldn’t want our entanglement to be burdened with any unnecessary midnight speeches, imaginary or otherwise.”</p>
<p>Geralt huffs a laugh, and reluctantly releases Jaskier’s fingers so that he may speak. It was immeasurably kind for Jaskier to give him an opening to decline had Geralt realised his midnight confessions to be of the moment, but Geralt knows, looking at Jaskier in the bright light of day with a clear mind and clearer intentions, that he meant every word of it. </p>
<p>“I love you,” he says, unmistakably direct before he presses his lips once again to Jaskier’s knuckles, “There are no burdens here, unless you –”</p>
<p>“No, none,” Jaskier hurries to assure with a tentative smile, as if he’s struggling to believe </p>
<p>what he’s seeing. “I… really?” he asks with a disbelieving squint. “I mean, you have <em>met</em> me, haven’t you?”</p>
<p>“Shut up, bard,” Geralt grumbles affectionately before Jaskier can start on his self-deprecating nonsense. He tugs him in for a kiss instead, which Jaskier eagerly returns.</p>
<p>When they pull apart, Jaskier’s eyes are glazed over in wonder, flickering as he examines the face before him. “How did I get so lucky?” he murmurs, with a hand sweetly cupping Geralt’s face.</p>
<p>His eyelids shutter as his words bring to light the memory of last night. He can believe it now, when Jaskier talks about him with such reverence. He doesn’t <em>understand</em> it, but he <em>believes</em> it. He wonders how he got so lucky in return.</p>
<p>He kisses Jaskier ardently in response, and he must communicate his passion effectively because soon Jaskier is rolling his hips against Geralt’s and kissing him with teeth and tongue.</p>
<p>Geralt caresses his thumb against Jaskier’s hip, just about to ask to remove his braies, when Jaskier suddenly freezes against him and scuttles from the bed.</p>
<p>“Sorry, sorry,” he says, hopping across the hardwood floors to his satchel across the room, “If I don’t do it now then I’ll forget and –” he takes a breath to measure a cap full of hart root and swallow it before replacing the cap, “– Arbor will just give me a lecture about responsibility when I return, which is not really something that I – <em>ow</em>,” he says emphatically,  presumably stubbing his toe as he trips over the abandoned phallus from last night. </p>
<p>“Oh now, that’s really not fair, I’ve really gone and cocked it up, haven’t I?”</p>
<p>Geralt smirks at the pun and hooks his fingers into Jaskier’s shirt to tug him back to bed.</p>
<p>“Jaskier Pancratz: eternal mood killer,” Jaskier bemoans before Geralt kisses the words from his lips.</p>
<p>“The mood’s just fine from where I’m standing,” Geralt murmurs, licking his way across Jaskier’s neck.</p>
<p>Jaskier makes some kind of intelligible noise before responding with a nod to Geralt’s groin and a quip about how well Geralt is ‘standing’.</p>
<p><em>Fuck</em>, does he love this ridiculous man. </p>
<p>“See for yourself,” Geralt flirts back, before drawing back to see how his flirtation has been taken. He wagers that Jaskier doesn’t want to engage in anything too intimate after last night and the hesitation on Jaskier’s face confirms as much.</p>
<p>“I have an idea,” Geralt proposes, and reaches out to rub Jaskier’s soft package so he understands what kind of idea he has. “Can you take these off?” he asks, tugging at Jaskier’s boxers.</p>
<p>Jaskier bites his lip in thought. “I don’t know. I’m… weird today.”</p>
<p>Geralt hums, taking it in stride. He tugs on Jaskier’s shirt instead, “You can keep this on,” he reassures. “I want to try rubbing our cocks together. It’ll feel better with less layers. Up to you how many.”</p>
<p>Jaskier seems to take a moment to process, nodding and thinking in silence, before he jumps off from the bed and tosses Geralt the oil from the side; the one that he used last night to open him. </p>
<p>“You, sir, are a genius,” Jaskier declares, climbing back onto the bed and then proceeding to climb on top of Geralt. </p>
<p>Geralt laughs and holds Jaskier by the hips as the bard wiggles out of his braies with far more movement than it ought to necessitate.</p>
<p>Then Jaskier looks down at his chest with a frown, and across to Geralt with some contemplation. Ah. Jaskier has mentioned before that this position makes him overtly aware of his breasts, probably not a smart idea after last night.</p>
<p>Jaskier gets there before him though, his thoughtful expression giving over to a wicked grin, as he says, “On second thoughts…” and effectively rolls them over until Geralt is straddling him.</p>
<p><em>Fuck</em>, Geralt loves this huge fucking bed. </p>
<p>“Yes,” Jaskier murmurs, running his palms up Geralt’s chest to his shoulders, “This works very well indeed.”</p>
<p>Geralt shakes his head in amusement at Jaskier’s obvious ogling and rummages around the sheets until he finds the abandoned vial of oil. He coats both their cocks liberally in the stuff before hooking Jaskier’s legs over his waist and slowly sliding his cock over Jaskier’s own.</p>
<p>Jaskier’s eyes roll into his head as he lets out a groan of pleasure. Geralt is careful to avoid anything that lies below Jaskier’s cock but the position makes it easy and he barely needs to move his hips to bring Jaskier pleasure. He’s careful not to overstimulate him either, going slow and gentle at first, before rutting desperately into him, and then gentling his movements once more. </p>
<p>Jaskier cusses him out at that, but his fingers dig into Geralt’s shoulder so delightfully and his back arches so beautifully that Geralt cannot take his protests at all seriously. </p>
<p>“I told you,” Geralt says, when they’re both sticky with sweat and still moving sweetly together, “I love the feel of your cock against mine.”</p>
<p>Jaskier cries out and bucks against him again, clinging onto the fallen strands of Geralt’s hair. “Oh,” he sighs, as they slide together once more, “We don’t do this nearly enough.”</p>
<p>Geralt hums in agreement, nosing along Jaskier’s neck as it flexes with the arching of his back. They don’t do this enough. They used to fuck plenty between Jaskier’s folds in Toussaint because it was easy and they were lazy and they both seemed to enjoy it well enough, but doing this from the front rather than the back means that Geralt can give Jaskier the same pleasure without involving the rest of Jaskier’s anatomy. There isn’t the natural slick to ease the way and instead of his cock being embraced in the full heat and pressure of Jaskier’s folds, it’s only the base of his cock that is enveloped and the rest comes to rut against Jaskier’s pelvis. It’s different, but it’s <em>good</em>. His cock becomes trapped between their taut stomachs, rutting so perfectly against their sweat-slick skin, building a divine heat and friction that makes him dizzy with desire.</p>
<p>This position also has the advantage that he can <em>kiss</em> Jaskier. Geralt’s always been fond of kissing during the act and while they’re mindlessly rutting together, his mouth remains locked on Jaskier’s, feeling every hitch of breath between his lips. </p>
<p>Jaskier comes first and when Geralt retreats he finds eager hands tugging at his hips. “Come here, I haven’t tasted you in far too long –”</p>
<p>“You tasted me <em>yesterday</em>,” Geralt corrects even as lets himself be maneuvered up the bed. </p>
<p>“Yes, that’s what I said: <em>far</em> <em>too long</em>. Speaking of ‘long’ –”</p>
<p>Geralt rolls his eyes in fondness at another innuendo and lets Jaskier service him very, <em>very</em> enthusiastically. Jaskier licks the spend from his lips afterwards, grinning up at Geralt with a mischievous glint in his eye. </p>
<p>“What,” Geralt grunts, because he knows that look and it usually ends with him butt-naked in a field somewhere.</p>
<p>Jaskier laughs and nudges Geralt until he gets the hint and falls on his side to lie next to Jaskier. “Who said I was up to anything?” he asks, with yet another sly smile.</p>
<p>Geralt elbows him in the side. “Out with it.”</p>
<p>“Alright, alright… I was going to ask if you’re able to stay the night when we return to Oxenfurt.”</p>
<p>“You’ve got class in the morning,” Geralt says with a frown, because as tempting as the idea is, he doesn’t want to interrupt Jaskier’s studies any further. </p>
<p>“So, leave at dawn like you always do,” Jaskier says with a smile and a nudge at his chest. “But I have an idea. And we are far too filthy – and running far too late –” he says, with a forlorn glance out the window, “to do it now. You’ll be taking me back this afternoon anyway… why not stay for supper, and a bath, and… activities afterwards.”</p>
<p>Geralt huffs a laugh and looks across the pillow at Jaskier with a fond smile. “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re insatiable?” </p>
<p>“Oh, <em>forgive</em> me,” Jaskier says, dripping with sarcasm, “how dare I be insatiable with an actual sex god in my bed. All that Witcher stamina, and yet, it is <em>I</em>, who he mocks. The utter <em>hypocrisy</em> –”</p>
<p>Geralt laughs and catches Jaskier’s wrist before it can make any further dramatics. “Not complaining,” he assures him with a devilish smirk. “Just an observation, and one I would be happy to sate.” </p>
<p>“Mmm,” Jaskier says with a satisfied stretch. “Yes, next time we are away for a few days, let us try. Summer perhaps, if you’ll have me on the Path again. I can’t believe I let you leave our bed in Toussaint instead of testing that famed stamina all summer long. A mistake on my part, I fear.”</p>
<p>Geralt hums and looks across at Jaskier, already envisioning another lazy summer with him, but this time with no hesitations or doubts between them. Yes. He can’t imagine that he will leave the bard’s bed for very long at all this time round. “Yes…” he murmurs, wondering if he’s agreeing to all of it. “I’ll stay with you tonight in Oxenfurt.”</p>
<p>Jaskier smiles broadly at him before pecking his cheek and rolling out of bed. “Right then, I believe we have some place to be, and <em>someone</em> to see. Belinda, was it?”</p>
<p>“Betilda,” Geralt corrects, watching fondly as his bard gathers his discarded clothing from the floor. </p>
<p>“Right, right,” Jaskier mutters, hunting for yet more belongings scattered around the suite.</p>
<p>Geralt loves the perpetual chaos that Jaskier seems to inhabit, and he hopes that there are many more years of picking around Jaskier’s strewn belongings to come.</p>
<p>Geralt must catch Jaskier in his arms a dozen more times before they finally depart the Kingfisher. He is being sentimental, and he knows that he is, but for the first time in their acquaintance, he fully indulges in the sensation, knowing that his affection is unequivocally returned. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thanks for reading! If you want to download any of the songs featured in this fic then head over <a href="https://vands38.tumblr.com/tagged/oxenfurt+album">here</a> - thank you! &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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